


Panthera Pardus

by Ismira_Daugene



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Afghanistan, Alternate Universe - Shapeshifters, Biting, Black Panther - Freeform, Bonding, Case Fic, Developing Relationship, Episode: s01e01 A Study in Pink, M/M, Male Slash, Mating, Minor Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Sherlock, Romance, Shapeshifting, Soldiers, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-19
Updated: 2013-10-28
Packaged: 2017-11-26 00:48:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 54,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/644717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ismira_Daugene/pseuds/Ismira_Daugene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John have met before... long before John was sent home from the war.  Little did John know that black panther he was attacked by under the hot Afghani sun was going to be his future flatmate.</p>
<p>AU where Sherlock is a shapeshifting black panther and John tries to come to terms with a flatmate who wants to mate with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bond Initiation

This had to be the hottest day on record… John was sure of it. He honestly couldn't remember feeling any hotter his entire life. It felt like he was inside an oven. And it didn't really matter where you were… whether you were in the sun or in your tent, the heat didn't relent. And so, John had picked the best spot he could, under a pomegranate tree on top of a low hill. There was a slight breeze, just enough to cool the sweat on his brow, but it was still scorchingly hot. The Afghani sun beat down relentlessly on the cracked dry earth and its inhabitants. It had to be close to 43 degrees… possibly more.

He was glad that all operations had been put on hold for the day. Negotiations were taking place and a cease-fire had been called. Therefore, it was time for some R&R and a bit of cool down. The men under his command were all lounging or cleaning up or getting some letter writing done back at camp. John had told them he was going for a walk, and they'd all given him strange looks as though to say, 'In this heat?'. And John had gone for a walk… to the top of the hill about one klick away where the breeze was a little stronger.

John stretched, his muscles shifting under his green sleeveless shirt. What would really be great right about now, would be a nice pint, he thought. Of course, the peace couldn't last though because it was just then that John heard a low growl. He opened his eyes, and trying to not make any sudden moves, lifted his head to look around. At first he couldn't see anything, but then a small shift in the bushes nearby drew his eye. He slowly sat up, reaching for the knife he kept in his boot. Even though a cease-fire had been called, he wouldn't past some group of guerillas to attack.

More shifting from the bush and a flash of something black. John moved into a defensive pose, crouched low to the ground, his knife held steady in his left hand, his right stretched out for balance. That was when he caught a glimpse of what was stalking him, and his heart sped up. This wasn't a guerilla attack. In slow sinuous movements, the black panther slipped from the bush. He was all grace and agility, teeth and claws, flashing golden eyes and iridescent black fur. John shifted so that the stalking panther was always in front of him.

The closer it moved, the faster John's heart beat, until finally he yelled at the panther, "Come on! What are you waiting for?!"

The panther, who was only a few feet away now, paused and hunkered down, preparing to leap. John steadied himself, his knife at the ready. It happened in the blink of an eye. One moment the panther was several feet away, the next John's knife had been knocked away and the panther had him pinned, one paw on each shoulder. A sleek muzzle pushed up against John's neck, and John expected teeth to bite into his jugular at any second. He waited… but nothing happened.

The panther kept him pinned, but did not move to harm him. In fact, the muzzle that kept scenting at his neck and underarms was now licking at the skin around his neck. The large sandpaper tongue rough against the day old stubble. What the hell was happening?

John tried to push against the panther, but it growled and bit lightly at the skin, not enough to break through, but definitely enough to get the point across. The panther settled down on top of John, its warm heavy weight covering him and holding him down. _Great, what am I supposed to do now?_ he asked himself as the panther started to lick his face.

He lay still for a few long minutes, debating when would be the opportune moment to shove the panther off and make a run for it, but was spared the decision when another panther showed up. The first, still settled over John, growled and dug its claws into John's shirt. John grunted a little as the claws poked at his skin. The second panther growled back, but didn't make any moves forward. Instead, it lowered its head and let out a huff of air, never taking its eyes off of the first panther. The first panther growled again, but lifted its weight off of John and moved into a more defensive position, as though to say, 'This is my human, back off!'

The second panther growled again, and paced back and forth a couple of times before standing still once more. John watched the two interact while staying as still as possible. The second panther never moved any closer, and the first panther seemed reluctant to leave John's side. Finally though, the second panther let out another huff then turned and trotted away. The first panther loosened up a bit and turned back to John, who was still trying to remain as still as possible.

One massive paw came up and batted at John's shoulder, trying to get under his arm. He did it again, as though trying to roll John over. John obliged by rolling over and lying still once more. The panther moved back over top of him and licked at the back of his neck a few times before biting down. John cried out and tried to move away, but the panther held him down and growled before letting go and lapping at the blood that had been released. John, panting from the pain, realized just how lucky he was that the panther hadn't broken through the spinal cord. In fact, the large black cat seemed content to clean up the mess it had made, as though to say 'sorry'.

Finally, the panther moved away from John. John remained laying on the ground while the cat made to follow its brethren. Just before entering the bush though, it gave John one last look, then disappeared. John sat up slowly, amazed to have survived the encounter with not one, but two black panthers. He wasn't quite sure what he was going to tell the medic who would be patching up the bite on the back of his neck though. _"Oh, yes, a panther bit me then licked up all the blood and left."_ With that thought, John rose to his legs and stumbled back down the hill to camp.

**oxoxoxo**

_Two Years and Four Months Later_

Sherlock heaved out a long-suffering sigh as he heard Mike Stamford's distinctive footsteps outside the door. There was someone with him… someone, a male, who used a cane. Apparently that comment this morning about it being difficult to find a roommate had gotten through that thick skull. The door swung open then, and both men walked in. The stranger made a comment about the lab being different than in his day. Doctor then… Sherlock glanced up at that moment and froze. He'd almost given up looking. However there he was… the very same man who he'd marked as a mate nearly two and a half years ago in the Afghani desert.

Sherlock sucked in a breath of air, the distinct scent that had drawn him to the man in the first place filled his lungs and the need to mark him, to get him away from Stamford was nearly unbearable. He could remember the day like it was only yesterday. Mycroft and he had been running through the desert in pursuit of an individual who threatened the peace talks. This was back when Mycroft truly was in a minor role in the government and still did some leg work. They'd passed by a camp of British Army soldiers and Sherlock had thought he'd smelled something, but had kept going. Eventually, Mycroft and he had taken care of their task and were headed back the way they had come when Sherlock caught a stronger scent. The scent struck him like a bolt of lightening and he broke away from Mycroft and rushed to the brush on the top of a nearby hill.

There, lying perfectly content under a pomegranate tree, was an ash blond soldier in a sleeveless shirt, camo khaki pants, and boots. His slow breaths indicated that he was almost asleep. There was something enticing in his smell that Sherlock couldn't resist. It wasn't like when he was hunting and caught the scent of prey… no this was much better. This scent woke a part of his brain that urged him to make this soldier his own… his mate. He'd never been drawn to anyone like this before despite having come across some appealing scents. His parents, for the ability to shapeshift was genetically passed down through their father, had told him about the mating urge, but he'd never thought it would happen to him.

He moved closer, shifting in the bush. That was when the soldier woke up. He didn't start and run away, no… instead he slowly and cautiously took in his surroundings before rising up into a sitting position. Sherlock, had he been able to in this form, would have smirked. The soldier had deep blue eyes, soft pink lips, and scraggly one-day-old stubble across his cheeks. He moved closer, and the soldier's eyes locked with his. Sherlock could hear the soldier's heart rate pick up, but the man did not turn and run. Instead he slowly rose to a crouched position and unsheathed a knife from his boot.

Sherlock mentally approved. This man was not afraid of him. He was a fighter… something that made him want him even more as a mate. He was short, shorter than the national average, and Sherlock could tell that he would fit perfectly under his own chin, as though they were made to be together. At first glance, the soldier appeared stocky, and while that was somewhat true, a second glance told of the layers of muscle that corded through his body. It was obvious that this was not the man's first tour of duty.

"Come on! What are you waiting for?!" the man yelled at Sherlock.

Sherlock stalked forward a bit more, then crouched low and pounced. One paw deliberately knocked the knife out of the soldier's hand before both fore paws came to rest against the man's shoulders, keeping him pinned in place against the hard earth. The scent was even more alluring at such close range, and Sherlock buried his muzzle in the man's neck, taking it in as much as he could and fighting the urge to rut against him. The man pushed against him, and Sherlock pressed back growling.

The man fell still again and Sherlock took the opportunity to take in his scent, sniffing at his sweat covered neck and underarms. Finally, he settled his weight on the man, mostly to keep him still, but also because the warmth against his underbelly felt quite good. The enticing scent was driving him crazy. Mine! he thought and licked a stripe across the man's neck. The salty taste of sweat was combined with hints of aftershave, gunpowder, tea, and (strangely) mint.

_Sherlock!_ Mycroft growled, having finally caught up. Sherlock let out a low growl that stopped Mycroft from coming any closer. _Sherlock, what do you think you're doing?_

A primal part of Sherlock's brain just wanted to shout out MATE! MINE! But he supposed Mycroft had already figured that out by the way Sherlock was lying possessively over the man. _Go away, Mycroft,_ he growled.

_You can't take a mate now, Sherlock._

_Why not?!_

_Because we have important work to do._

_He is MINE!_ Sherlock growled, falling to base instincts to get his message across. He moved into a more defensive position over the soldier.

Mycroft let out a huff of air and lowered his head in deference to indicate he wasn't about to challenge Sherlock for the man. _Then mark him as yours and let us be on our way. You can find him again later._

Sherlock growled again, but saw the logic in this solution. His rational brain knew there was much to be done and though he was loathe to follow Mycroft so blindly, he was the older of them and knew more about the mating call than Sherlock did. _Come, Sherlock. We have things to finish._ Mycroft said before turning to trot off and leave Sherlock to mark his mate in private.

Sherlock felt his muscles relax as Mycroft left and he let out a huff of air. Finally, he turned his attention back to the man who was lying as still as possible, his heart betrayed him though and told Sherlock that he was afraid. With one large paw, Sherlock swatted at the man's shoulder until he got the hint and rolled over. Then Sherlock got into position and licked at the back of the man's neck. The delightful ambrosia of tastes covered his palate once more and it took more control than he thought he really had to not change back to human and mate with the man here and now. Instead he sunk his fangs into the vulnerable back of the man's neck, just deep enough that it would scar and leave a mark. The man cried out, and tried to move away, but Sherlock held him down. After he was sure that the blood saliva transference was sufficient to begin the bonding process, he let go and cleaned up the leftover blood.

Once he was finished, he nuzzled once more at the man's neck then turned to trot away, stopping once to look once more at his mate before disappearing into the bush after Mycroft.

And now here he was again. Two and a half years later and Sherlock had finally found the man once more. Regaining his senses, Sherlock looked back into the microscope and asked, "Mike, can I borrow your phone?" Sherlock interrupted, asking Mike for his phone because he'd remembered that he needed to text Lestrade… that and he needed a distraction from the man's enticing scent.

"What's wrong with the land line?"

"I prefer to text."

Mike checked his pockets for a second before replying, "Sorry, it's in my coat."

"Uh, here… use mine," the man said.

"Oh… thank you," Sherlock replied and moved to retrieve the phone from him.

"That's an old friend of mine, John Watson," Mike filled in.

John… finally there was a name to the face. John Watson… As Sherlock reached to take the phone, he had to steady himself. It shouldn't have been this hard to not pounce on someone, but it was. "Afghanistan or Iraq?" he asked opening the phone to distract himself.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock asked again, looking up into those deep blue eyes, which was definitely a mistake, because that only made the impulse jump. He couldn't decide which he would prefer, for John and Mike to just leave, or for just Mike to leave so Sherlock could have John all to himself.

"Afghanistan, I'm sorry, how did you…?"

At that moment, the ever-annoying Molly Hooper walked in with the coffee he'd asked of her, a welcome distraction. He gratefully took the mug she handed him and he made some off hand remark about her lipstick, not really paying attention to her as she walked out. All of his attention was on John. Mike had brought John here as a potential flatmate. And Sherlock would be damned if John was going to walk away from this. "How do you feel about the violin?"

"I'm sorry, what?"

Sherlock could tell Mike was giving John a grin that said, 'Look at the freak do his tricks.' "I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days… Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other." He looked up and smiled at John, trying to reassure him, but the look on John's face was anything but reassurance.

John turned to Mike, "You told him about me?"

"Not a word…"

"Then who said anything about flatmates?"

"I did," Sherlock replied casually as he moved to put on his jacket. He needed to get away, and get John to come to Baker Street. If not now, then VERY soon. "Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is, just after lunch with an old friend just home from military service in Afghanistan. It wasn't a difficult leap." Nonchalance… that was the key. If only he could keep up the façade.

"How did you know about Afghanistan?" John asked.

God! His voice! Sherlock was sure his voice would melt him. It was so soothing. He ignored the question though and proceeded on to the flat he was looking at. "Got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it." Plant the idea in his head. Sherlock couldn't afford for John to say no. "Meet there tomorrow evening, seven o'clock." Now he really needed to leave, but he would have to pass John in order to do it. "Sorry, got to dash. Left my riding crop in the mortuary." This was it.., he would walk by John as though nothing was wrong. Oh but that scent! It made Sherlock want to bend John over the table and… NO! Wrong line of thought! Sherlock held his breath and walked quickly around John and towards the door.

"Is that it?" John asked.

_Oh John, why won't you let me go?_ Sherlock thought. "Is that what?"

"We only just met and we're going to go look at a flat?"

"Problem?"

"We don't know a thing about each other. I don't know where we're meeting. I don't even know your name." John's tone was cynical and wary.

_I must fix this!_ Sherlock decided to put the full force of his deductive powers to work. If anything, this would make or break it. "I know you're an army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you, but you won't go to him for help because you disapprove of him, possibly because he's an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks that your limp is psychosomatic, quite correctly I'm afraid. That's enough to be going on with don't you think?" he turned back towards the door. Out! He needed out! John's enticing scent kept pulling him back.

He reached the door and pulled it open to get a breath of fresh air before ducking his head back in and saying, "The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is two, two, one, B, Baker Street. Afternoon!" he called before leaving.

Sherlock waited all the way till he got in the cab before letting out a long breath. That's it… either John would be curious enough to find out who he was, or he'd turn away and never look back. Sherlock could only hope that the bonding process he'd started so long ago would draw John to him. The bonding wasn't something that enslaved one being to another, but instead made one more aware. It allowed for mates to be aware of if their significant other was in danger or if they needed help. Sherlock had even heard of bonds being so strong, that the couple involved could practically read each other's thoughts. It took a long time to get there though and John and he were still very much in the beginning stages of a new bond. Just the initial bite had been done and John could still quite easily walk away from this. Sherlock wasn't so sure he could, but that was only because John is the ONLY one who he'd ever been attracted to in any way.

Only tomorrow would tell. Less than twenty four hours and Sherlock would know if everything would be okay. Less than twenty-four hours and Sherlock would know if his life would change forever.


	2. Lovely to Meet You... Again.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John discovers some startling things about himself and Sherlock.

6:48pm

Twelve minutes… twelve minutes till either hell came crashing down around him or he was lifted on to a higher plane. Twelve minutes till John arrived… or didn't arrive. Sherlock dug his fingers into his thick hair. Twelve minutes was too long! Sherlock hadn't even figured out how to approach John about the subject that they were bonded mates. Well… semi-bonded… They would have to complete the bonding in order to be fully bonded. There was still a huge chance this would not work and then Sherlock would be left with nothing. Less than nothing…

6:57pm

Three more minutes… Sherlock paced the floor, hoping and wishing and praying to every deity that he had heard of. And then he heard it. A sharp triple knock on the door. _John_ … Sherlock nearly vaulted the entire staircase in his hurry to get to the door. He whipped open the door just in time to see John's raised hand as he was about to knock again. "You came," Sherlock whispered.

"Excuse me?" John asked.

"Nothing," Sherlock said a little louder. "Come in, then."

Sherlock turned to find his landlady, Mrs. Hudson, standing in the hall. _Hmm… the purple dress with matching kitten heels. Another date with Alfie tonight._ "Mrs. Hudson," he addressed her. "This is John Watson, John, my landlady Mrs. Hudson."

"How do you do?" he asked, raising a hand to shake with.

Mrs. Hudson completed the shake and smiled. "Lovely to meet you, dear. Sherlock told me someone might be stopping by to see the place."

"Did he?"

"Well, come on then," Sherlock said eager to get John up the stairs. To his dismay, Mrs. Hudson followed. On second thought… it was probably a good thing. Mrs. Hudson would enforce him to reign in his self-control.

The three trooped up the stairs, John's cane thumping on every other step. Once at the top, Sherlock stepped aside to allow John in past him. He leaned forward slightly as John passed, his jacket sleeve brushing Sherlock's chest. Sherlock suppressed a shudder. He wasn't certain how long he could restrain himself. Heat was working its way through him, concentrating in his groin, urging him to complete the bonding.

"This is nice," John murmured. "Yes, it could be very nice," he said with more conviction.

"Exactly what I thought," Sherlock replied, trying not to stare at John.

"There's a second bedroom upstairs, if you'll be needin' two," Mrs. Hudson piped in.

"Of course we'll be needing two," John replied turning to look at Mrs. Hudson.

"Well we get all sorts around here," she waved a hand nonchalantly then whispered, "Mrs. Turner next door has got married ones!"

The look on John's face made Sherlock's heart sink a bit. This was going to be work. Of course, the bond would make him a little more amiable towards a relationship with Sherlock, but everything was still up in the air until they completed the bond. At the moment, John was merely marked.

"Well I think this'll do nicely," John said, turning back to look around once more.

"You'll take it then?" Sherlock asked, needing the confirmation.

"Yes, I think so," John smiled at him and Sherlock swore his heart stopped.

"Excellent," Mrs. Hudson grinned. "Welcome to 221b, John!"

"Sherlock," a new voice from the door said.

Sherlock turned to see Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade in the doorway of 221b. "What is it this time?"

"Lauriston Gardens, Brixton. Murder, behind a locked door," he replied simply. "Will you come?"

"Who's on forensics?"

"Anderson."

"I can't work with Anderson," Sherlock grumbled.

"Well he won't be your assistant," Lestrade pointed out.

"But I need an assistant!"

"Will you come?" Lestrade almost pleaded.

"Fine, but not in the car. I'll be right behind you."

"Thank you," Lestrade said before leaving.

Sherlock waited a whole thirty seconds before jumping into the air. "Yes! Oh it's like Christmas."

John stared at his new flatmate with concern. "Well off you go then, dear," Mrs. Hudson said. "And try not to look so happy, it isn't descent."

Sherlock grinned anyway, pulling his coat and scarf on. "Won't be back till late, might need some food. John, make yourself at home," he said quickly. The urge to mate had been blown out the window. Well… the fire was still there, but the excuse to get away so he didn't tackle John to the floor was too good and he needed to take it immediately.

He was halfway down the stairs when he realized something. John… John would probably not appreciate being left behind, and if Sherlock wanted to continue encouraging John to be his mate… well, Sherlock was going to have to make some changes. He slowly came back into the flat to see John sitting where he'd left him. "You're a doctor," he said.

John looked back to see Sherlock and stood, bracing himself on the cane. "Yes," he replied.

"Any good?"

" _Very_ good," he said with a straight face. Now who was posturing?

"Seen quite a bit then. Lots of brutal injuries."

"Yes. Far too much. Enough for a life-time."

"Want to see some more?" Sherlock grinned. If he was reading John right, and he knew he was, then…

"Oh god, yes," John sighed in relief and zipped his jacket.

_Excellent!_

The cab ride was quite, until Sherlock grinned and said, "You have questions."

From there he explained the deductions he'd made at St. Bart's, cautious to not put John off, but all the same worried because no one had ever liked having their lives examined that closely. However when he was done and silence filled the car and Sherlock waited for the axe to fall, John surprised him. "That… was… excellent."

"What?"

"Extraordinary. Quite extraordinary," John murmured.

"That's not what people usually say," Sherlock commented.

"What do they usually say?"

"Piss off." John grinned and a chuckle left his lips. Sherlock grinned as well because he had been the one to do that, make John laugh.

They arrived at the crime scene shortly thereafter. The house wasn't very large, but it had several stories, all of which where run down and dilapidated. It looked like the house hadn't been used for several years except by squatters. Sally Donovan intercepted them as they made their way towards the run down building. "Where do you think you're going?" she asked.

"I'm here to see Inspector Lestrade."

"Why?"

"Because I was asked."

"Why?"

Sherlock glared at the woman. "Because, as always, you're out of your depth."

He ducked under the police tape and held it up for John, but Sally interfered once more. "Whoa! Who's this?"

"John Watson, my colleague."

John gave him a surprised look, but smiled a bit at the title.

"Colleague?" Sally laughed. "How did you get a colleague? Did he follow you home?"

John remained silent, and gave Sally a raised eyebrow. She laughed again then held her radio up and spoke into it. "Bringing the Freak up."

Sherlock grumbled under his breath. This was not how he wanted John to see him. They both remained silent until they reached the house. Sherlock completely ignored Anderson who had stopped to speak to him. Instead he rushed inside, conscious of John limping along behind him. That had to go. Mission number one would be to cure John of that psychosomatic limp. "Come on then, put this on," Sherlock handed John a blue jumpsuit used for the forensics team.

John took the proffered suit and began struggling to get in it. "Aren't you going to wear one?"

Sherlock raised a skeptical eyebrow, but didn't reply. A couple of minutes later, he, John, and Lestrade were gathered around the body. "What do you see, Doctor Watson," Sherlock asked, letting John have free reign.

John moved forward, his booted feet thumping in time with his cane, and crouched beside the dead woman. He gently picked up her hand, turning it slightly, before putting it back down. His gloved fingertips ran along blue tinged lips, and Sherlock felt a stirring of jealousy. _Oh for crying out loud! Over a corpse?_ Apparently so… Sherlock scowled at himself. John stood then. "Dead by asphyxiation from strangulation." He pointed to the bruising around her throat. "Has been dead for approximately ten to fifteen hours."

"Good, completely missing all of the important things, but good," Sherlock said cheerfully before crouching down beside John who was frowning at him. _What did I do now?_ Sherlock ignored him in favor of pointing out his deductions. "Clothing, hair, and skin condition indicate that she's not very well off and is in fact one of the homeless squatters who occasionally resides here. She's originally from a middle class family in Oxford as is evident by her facial structure (quite common to old families from that area), but was cut off from the family money when she started doing drugs," he pointed out the needle marks in the cook of her elbow. "Worked for a bit as a barista, as is evident from her shoes, but couldn't maintain it without a reliable way to get to work nor a shower to keep clean. Has only been squatting in this particular building for the past two months, but prior to that she roamed the alleyways and pick pocketed in the London Underground."

"So what happened to her then?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock gave the Inspector a glance before continuing. "She got her hands on something valuable. Something she'd pickpocketed."

"So some other squatter killed her for it?" Lestrade remarked crossing his arms over his chest.

"Wrong," Sherlock replied. "These fingerprints around her neck are strong. Much too strong for someone who lives from day to day mostly on the scraps of others. This was done by someone who wanted his possession back. Your killer is a thug who someone hired to get their valuables returned by any means, which means the item is probably stolen and worth quite a hefty sum." Sherlock visited his mind palace then. He walked through the corridors, visiting things he'd read and heard about being stolen until finally he came across the most likely suspect. "The item is most likely the Inferno Necklace of Kabul."

"The what?" Lestrade asked, a blank expression on his face.

"I've heard of that," John said. Sherlock grinned, he suspected John might know of the rare item. "It's a necklace with a 20 karat D grade diamond pendant and several karats worth of accent rubies. It's rumored to be cursed."

"Rumors, John," Sherlock rolled his eyes. "The necklace is worth upwards of 60 million pounds, and was stolen two months ago."

"Were there any suspects in the investigation?" John asked.

Sherlock grinned. It seemed that John was quite good at running perhaps not on the same track as Sherlock's mind, but definitely parallel. "A few, but nothing definite was ever pinned on them."

"So we need to look into who the suspects were, and see if any of them have been in the country recently," John said smiling.

"Exactly!" Sherlock's grin grew larger. "And that would be your job then, Lestrade. My work is done here." Sherlock brushed some dirt from his shoulder as he rose to his full height. "Come along then, John."

With that, Sherlock exited the building, John on his trail, limping behind him. They were headed toward the main street to catch a cab, when Sherlock heard a bit of a commotion behind him. He turned to see that a man had run smack into John, and that his mate had fallen to the ground. "John," he breathed as he rushed back and crouched beside the fallen doctor. "Are you alright?"

"Of course I am, Sherlock," John grumbled. "Just some bloke who wasn't watching where he was going."

"Seems he didn't stick around either," Sherlock commented looking down the street to see the man had disappeared. "Come on then, walking beside me from now on," he smirked and pulled the doctor up.

John brushed himself off and frowned. "I think that man just stole my wallet," he said. "Son of a…"

This was better than Sherlock could have hoped. A chance to get rid of John's psychosomatic limp! "Come on then, John! We can still catch him!" Sherlock tugged at John's sleeve and started running after the man.

"Sherlock!" John called out from behind, but Sherlock kept running. If John was to forget about his limp, he would have to get caught up in the chase, and Sherlock couldn't wait for him.

Sherlock whipped around the corner in time to see the man getting into a cab down the street. He rushed forward and reached the taxi just as it was pulling away from the curb. "Great, now we'll never catch him," John said as he caught up.

"Wrong," Sherlock disagreed and watched to see where the taxi turned. Left… which meant that between the one ways and construction zones, he was headed to one of four places and they just might have a chance of catching him. "Come on, John!" Sherlock pulled John forward and started running down the alleyway. He glanced back to see that John was indeed keeping up. His cane held in his left hand was useless as he pounded down the pavement to keep up with Sherlock. Sherlock grinned and kept going, turning this way and that and occasionally jumping over trash bins that had fallen over.

At one point, they reached a stop light and Sherlock could see the cab idling, waiting for the green light and had just about caught up to it, his hand nearly touching the trunk when the light turned and the cab took off. "Damnit!" John cursed.

"This way!" Sherlock cried out not stopping.

He could hear John behind him, skidding on the pavement as he struggled to keep up. Sherlock wove between the people walking and ducked into an apartment building where he raced up the stairs to the roof exit, John following close behind. He threw open the door and ran out on the roof of the building, not slowing down as he got close to the edge, picking up speed and jumping the gap between one building and the next. "Sherlock!" John called out.

Sherlock paused for a moment to see John standing on the edge of the building. "Come on, John! He's getting away!" He made to keep running, but listened to see if John made the jump. Five seconds later, he heard the thump of two feet landing on the gravel and he smiled as he ran towards the fire escape.

Several turns and one jumped fence later, they caught up with the cab again as it pulled over to the side of the road. Sherlock ripped open the door before the passenger could and dug in his pocket for the badge he'd stolen off Lestrade ages ago. "Scotland Yard," he breathed out heavily. "Give back the wallet you just stole and we'll forget this incident."

The man in the cab stared at Sherlock with a shocked face. "How…"

"Give back the wallet, sir."

The man hurried to pull the wallet out of his back pocket and threw it at Sherlock. "Sorry! I'm sorry! I won't do it again!"

Sherlock surveyed the man quickly. Middle-aged blue-collar worker, has a wife and three kids, two small dogs, lives in Chiswick, recently had a bad bit of luck with money and thought he could pickpocket to make up the difference. "We'll forget about it this time, sir," Sherlock assured. "But don't think we won't persecute next time."

The man nodded enthusiastically and stumbled out of the cab, running away from the tall dark haired sleuth and his doctor assistant. John, still breathing hard from their run laughed as the man ran away. Actually, Sherlock would describe the sound as more of a giggle, and it made Sherlock smile as well. "Where the bloody hell did you get that?" John asked pointing at the badge.

"Lestrade volunteered it," he grinned.

"By 'volunteered' do you mean he didn't say no when you stole it from him?"

"Possibly…"  
John laughed harder and took his wallet back from Sherlock, checking inside to make sure everything was still there. He shook his head disbelievingly before stuffing the wallet back in his pocket and straightening up. "Shall we go home?" he asked.

Sherlock grinned even wider. "Absolutely." John had just called 221b home. This was working out even better than Sherlock had hoped. Now if only he could figure out a way to tell John about the bond.

oxoxoxo

It was a few weeks later when John was walking down the street on his way to Tesco to pick up a few essentials like tea, bread, and jam. He no longer needed his cane, hadn't used it in fact since that first night with Sherlock. John grinned at that thought. Who would've thought that meeting a nutter like Sherlock could cure John of his psychosomatic limp? Either way, John was glad he'd met Sherlock. Since that night, his life had completely turned around. He felt like he had a purpose again, a reason to live. Sherlock was manic, psychotic, got into feuds with the telly, didn't eat for long periods of time, left things lying about like acid and human remains, never bothered to do the dishes, and took advantage of Mrs. Hudson who kept claiming she wasn't their housekeeper, but proved time and again that she cared for them by cleaning up a little. And despite all of this, John couldn't imagine living without Sherlock. It had only been just around a month, and already Sherlock was an integral part of John's life.

Of course, he was pretty sure he'd become an integral part of Sherlock's life too. He cleaned up after the man, made sure he ate enough, made his tea, let him use his laptop when his was on the other side of the room, served as a pillow frequently, was a sounding board for ideas, or more often a friendly face to rant to about how stupid the lot of humanity was. John really could not imagine what kinds of things Sherlock used to get up to before he was around. There had been more times than he could count where Sherlock checked himself at a crime scene because of the 'not good' glare John gave him.

John had noticed some changes in Sherlock since they'd first met though. The tall lean detective had been touching him more. Nothing overt, just casual gestures such as a brief touch to John's elbow when turning John in the right direction, a hand on John's shoulder when giving praise or excited as though he needed grounding, a gentle nudge to the small of John's back when Sherlock needed him to move. Things like that. Then there was the fact that Sherlock slept more often when John was in the room. For example, when John worked all day at the surgery (he'd been picking up extra work at the local hospital to contribute something to the rent), Sherlock would pace and become agitated. He'd fall into boredom spells that would result in his shooting the wall or dripping acid onto John's sweaters just to see the reaction. However when John spent all day at 221b, Sherlock would sleep, peacefully and without dreams. John had wondered why this was. Perhaps Sherlock had formed a bond of trust with John that allowed the man to settle down enough, when John was present, to actually fall asleep?

Of course, John never pretended to know what went on in that brilliant head of Sherlock's. He'd often wonder, but would always come to the same conclusion that it would most likely be too much for him. Where most humans wandered around the Earth in their small circles (work, family, home, lovers), Sherlock strode the Earth with a yearning for more. He needed knowledge, puzzles, and activity. His mind did not appear to have an off switch, even when he was first waking up, as John had witnessed one time. Sherlock had fallen asleep on the sofa for a solid two hours after talking about the decomposition of a human finger that he'd been experimenting on. Not thirty seconds after waking up, Sherlock was on the same train of thought and rambling on about some question he hadn't been able to answer before, but had now figured out. It was really quite wonderful to watch, Sherlock's mind.

It was about this time during his walk that John noticed a sleek black car following him. It had tinted windows and subtle chrome highlighting. It looked expensive. He stopped, experimentally to see if the car would keep going. It did not. He continued walking and the car moved with him.

Huffing in exasperation, John took the initiative and strode over to the car, rapping on the window once it had stopped. Instead of the tinted window rolling down, the back door popped open. "Get in," a feminine voice inside commanded.

John hesitantly bent to peer in the open door. "Excuse me?"

"Get in… please?" the girl said. For she was a girl… no older than twenty-five perhaps.

John didn't believe her sincerity when she said please… nope, not for an instant. "And just why should I?"

"Because my employer wishes to have a word with you, and because you don't really have a choice," she said barely looking up from the Blackberry in her hands.

At this, John noticed the car's burly driver had exited the car and was standing unobtrusively behind John. He had a feeling that the driver was not as unobtrusive as he seemed. Scowling, he climbed in the backseat and sat on the fine leather upholstery. The driver strode around the car and got behind the wheel, pulling out into traffic and moving smoothly through the streets. "Where are you taking me?" John asked.

The girl didn't answer.

"Who are you?"

"Anthea… today," she replied, still not looking up from whatever she was typing.

"Today?"

"Today felt like an Anthea day," she shrugged.

John sat back against the seat befuddled. "Who is your employer?"

"You'll find out, soon enough," she replied. Any further enquiries John voiced were met with silence, so he settled back in the car to wait.

The wait wasn't very long, perhaps another twenty minutes and the car had come to a halt in the middle of a deserted parking garage. "Go on then," Anthea said waving absently at the door.

John slowly opened the door, and got out. The dim lighting and damp concrete were everything one would expect for this sort of thing… whatever it may be (John still wasn't sure). Before him stood a tall balding man with a slender nose and somewhat beady eyes. He was wearing a well fitting three-piece suite and carried a black umbrella with a metal tip. The man smiled at John, his eyes calculating and observant, just like Sherlock's. "Good afternoon, Doctor Watson," the man said.

"I'm sorry, I don't believe we've met before," John replied becoming slightly annoyed.

"Well, not properly anyway."

"I think I'd remember meeting you," John grumbled.

"Yes, you would think."

"What do you want? Why have you brought me here? To tell me riddles and flaunt your supposed superiority over me?"

The man raised a single eyebrow. "Neither, actually. I've brought you here to enquire as to what your connection is with one, Sherlock Holmes."

Why did this man want to know about Sherlock? "We're flatmates."

"I see. Only met a little more than a month ago and already flatmates. Will there be an announcement soon?" John scowled at the man. Who was he to presume? "I have a proposition for you, Doctor Watson. I would like you to tell me about Sherlock… his daily goings on and such."

"Why?"

The man let a pause play out for a half a minute before replying, "I worry about him… constantly." Another pause, then, "I promise you'll be compensated."

"No," John replied with certainty.

"But you haven't even heard how much I'm willing to offer you in return."

"No."

The man smiled again. It most definitely was not a real smile. More like the type of thing you'd see on a shark. "My, my… aren't we loyal. And just what has he done to deserve your loyalty?"

"Well for one thing, he hasn't had me kidnapped and taken me to some remote deserted parking garage."

The man laughed at that. "Yes, I can see why he likes you. Though, he hasn't told you of his past, has he?"

"His past is his own concern," John replied, failing to see where this was going.

"Hmm… not when yours and his past converge… if only briefly."

"What are you talking about? I've never met Sherlock before a month or so ago."

He smiled that shark smile again. "He hasn't completed the bonding. I would have thought that would be the first thing he'd do. He was ever so eager that day." John gave the man a glare. He didn't like the way this man was speaking to him and was starting to get a headache from not understanding what the hell he was going on about.

"I would say it's his own prerogative usually, but this concerns more than just him," the man continued.

"What the bloody hell are you talking about?" John growled.

Once again, the man let a pregnant pause fill the air before continuing. "I'm sure you'll recall during your service in Afghanistan a particularly hot day when you survived an encounter with not one, but two black panthers?"

John gaped. That had certainly not been what he'd been expecting. How did this man know about that?

"Yes," the man drawled. "The first panther bit you, did he not?" John nodded mutely. "May I?"

John continued to be silent, and the man walked forward and around behind John. He gently pulled the collar of John's jacket down, and John stiffened reflexively. The man didn't touch him at all, only looked at the scars that had been left by the panther. "Went quite deep, but no lasting harm was done," he commented before letting go of John's jacket and walking back to his previous spot in front of John.

"How do you…?"

"How do I know of this event?" he interrupted. He smiled again… that shark smile that made John think he did this quite often. "I was there, Doctor Watson."

"No… no one was there."

"You are incorrect. There were two black panthers there, were there not?"

John nodded.

The man was silent for a minute, simply allowing John to think, of which he couldn't seem to do as his mind seemed only able to spin in circles. "I'm going to show you something, Doctor Watson. I'm not doing this to frighten you, only to inform you, because it is obvious Sherlock wouldn't anytime soon if it were left up to him, and this matter needs to be dealt with."

John nodded minutely, not even realizing he was holding his breath.

"I'd ask you not to run please," the man said before laying down his umbrella and loosening his tie.

John stared as the man efficiently and unselfconsciously took off his clothing. Once everything was off, even the man's socks, he stood still. John was about to ask what the man thought he was doing when he noticed black hair growing on all over his body. No… it was more like fur. Not only that, but his body was changing as well. His face elongated into a muzzle, his ears traveled up the side of his head to perch on top and became more rounded. His knees inverted which caused him to fall forward onto his hands, which were now massive paws with sharp claws. Finally, a tail grew out of the end of his spinal cord and the transformation was complete.

Before John, where once had stood an average if slightly overweight man, now stood a sleek black panther. John felt as though his mind was short-circuiting. This particular black panther looked an awful lot like the second black panther from that day in the Afghani desert. John, his mind still puttering and gasping, took a hesitant step forward, and then another. He moved until he was standing right before the black panther, and reached out a slightly shaking hand to gently touch the beast. Its fur was course under his hand, but he did not get the chance to explore further as the cat growled and John backed up a few steps. Then, just as he had changed from man to beast, the beast turned back into a man. John wasn't perturbed by his nakedness at all. His mind was elsewhere, trying to restart still. "What are you?" he finally managed to whisper.

"I would suggest you ask your new flatmate, Doctor Watson. And while you're at it, ask him about those bite marks on the back of your neck as well."

John's hand flew up to finger the scars at the back of his neck, feeling them anew as though this were the first he'd learned of them. "Sherlock…" he whispered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the almost verbatim wording in this one. I promise that it will get more original after this. Also, I thank everyone for their kind words and kudos from the first chapter! I'm glad you are liking this!
> 
> One last thing, I plan to update weekly. I know I posted the first chapter on a Friday and today is Thursday, but I just happen to have the day off of work, so here you go. I'm aiming for Friday again for the next chapter. No not tomorrow... the following Friday. *wink*


	3. Revelations

Sherlock had been quite surprised at the end of a month that John Watson was still living under the same roof as him. It had been several weeks now since John had moved into 221b and the relationship between the detective and the doctor was progressing marvelously. Sherlock could feel the bond strengthening everyday just from being in each other's presence. Of course, he still felt the need to complete the bond. In fact the need grew stronger everyday, but Sherlock was still hesitant, unsure if John would be receptive to a different kind of relationship than they currently had. It was something that would have to be broached soon, because Sherlock wasn't sure how much longer he could hold out.

During the course of the past few weeks, Sherlock had learned much about John, like that in the morning he preferred coffee to tea, or the fact that John was quite fond of Sunday afternoon naps on the sofa. Sherlock had also learned that John had nightmares about Afghanistan still. Every time Sherlock heard John whimpering or screaming in his sleep, he wanted to comfort the man and sooth him, but flatmates didn't do that. _Bond mates do_ , his internal thoughts would insist, but then he'd have to hush his thoughts and try to focus on being a good flatmate. He wanted to take things slowly. John was different than anybody he'd ever met. He was smart (well… not nearly as intelligent as Sherlock, but for a normal person, quite smart), patient, loyal, courageous, and a wonderful companion during the dull boring periods between cases. Sherlock didn't want to do anything to jeopardize his and John's potential relationship.

It was on a Thursday when John went to Tesco to pick up some things. Sherlock had used all of the milk for an experiment. It was on this particular Thursday that, unbeknownst to Sherlock, everything would change. All of his careful planning would be shattered. He'd been alone for quite some time now and had taken to examining mold cultures that had been maturing for a few days under different conditions when he heard the door open down stairs. He listened carefully and smiled when he determined that John was home. However the smile shrunk when Sherlock realized by John's footsteps that something was wrong. He was walking slowly and mechanically as though in a daze, and judging from the weight of the steps, he hadn't purchased anything at Tesco.

Sherlock glanced up when John opened the door, his deductions confirmed when he saw the look on John's face. His brows were furrowed, but not in anger, well… a little anger, but mostly confusion. His mouth was set a little to one side as though he'd been chewing on the inside of his cheek, and his hands were clenched inside his jacket pockets. John turned to shut the door and that was when Sherlock smelled it. A growl rose in his throat and before he knew it, he was pressing John up against the door from behind, one hand pressing against the back of John's neck, the other gripping John's hand that had attempted to push Sherlock away. "Sherlock! What are you doing?" John growled from against the door.

"Mycroft… I can smell him on you. What did he do to you, John?"

"Nothing's been done to me! And who is Mycroft?"

"I can smell him, John!"

"I don't know who Mycroft is!" John attempted to shove Sherlock backwards, but the taller man's grip only tightened. "Let me go, Sherlock!"

Sherlock leaned in against John, his nose against the back of John's neck, taking in the scent of his older brother. Mycroft hadn't touched John… only the jacket. With a sigh of relief, Sherlock loosened his hold on John and took a step back. John whipped around, his face clouded with anger. "What is your problem?!" he growled.

"Take off your jacket."

"What?"

"Take off your jacket, and then you can ask me whatever you like."

John gave Sherlock a hard stare and looked about ready to just plop down in his chair with the jacket still on just for spite. However curiosity won, and John instead slipped his jacket off, all the while not breaking eye contact with Sherlock. He hung it on its designated peg then walked over to his chair and sat down, arms crossed over his chest, and eyes narrowed slightly. Sherlock too sat down in his own chair facing John. "What did Mycroft tell you?" he asked.

"Who is Mycroft? And I thought I was going to be the one asking questions?" John retorted.

Sherlock let out a sigh and rolled his eyes. "Yes, alright then. Mycroft is my elder brother. He is the person you met today."

"How do you know I met him today?"

"I can smell where he touched the collar of your jacket," Sherlock gazed at him as though daring John to ask how that was possible.

Instead, John let out sigh and shook his head slowly. His arms came uncrossed and settled on the arms of his chair. This was good, Sherlock thought. Crossed arms was a sign of being closed off, not open to new things. "Your brother is mental," John remarked as though commenting on the weather.

Sherlock grinned. "You have no idea…"

John gave him a small smile, but it was wiped from his face shortly after. "He told me things… showed me things… Sherlock, I want you to be honest with me…"

"He told you of our lineage," Sherlock interrupted, knowing now what his brother had done. He'd forced Sherlock into showing his hand, and this would be it. Either John would run away screaming, or the bond between them would strengthen and a whole new realm of possibility would be opened. Either way he was going to kill his brother.

"Yes, I suppose he did," John muttered, his eyes averting to the ground. "Can – Can you… really do that?" The blond man looked up hesitantly. Sherlock didn't say anything, just simply nodded. "Show me." The command was quiet, whispered, but still unyielding.

Sherlock stood and began stripping out of his housecoat, then his loose cotton pyjamas. Once he was bare (self-consciousness didn't really exist in his family considering their nature), he stood still and reached into his mind, the part that was itching to get out and show John just what he'd been missing. A tickling sensation followed the fur quickly growing everywhere on his body. Then the sensation of organs readjusting themselves and reshaping inside; it wasn't painful, but rather felt like someone squeezing gently. Next his skull lengthened and sharp fangs grew in; his ears traveled up the side of his head and the bones in his legs readjusted causing him to fall forward on to the massive paws that had replaced his hands. Lastly, his spine elongated to form a long tail that twitched from side to side.

When all was said and done, Sherlock stood as a black leopard, _Panthera Pardus_ his mind filled in the scientific terminology. John's eyes were wide and uncertain. He stood examining the beast before him, and Sherlock could tell there was a lot of doubt and hesitancy in that gaze. So the large cat padded forward until he stood directly in front of John. John stared at him a moment longer before reaching out slowly and touching Sherlock's head, his fingers brushing through the fur and lightly massaging Sherlock's scalp. Sherlock leaned into the touch and let a low contented sound rumble out from deep inside his chest. John shifted to better scratch at Sherlock's ears, and Sherlock pressed back. After a moment though, John pulled away. Sherlock was tempted to follow, but didn't, recognizing that the moment had passed.

"Sherlock, we need to talk about this," John said, leaning back in his chair.

Sherlock slowly backed up a few steps and transformed back into a man before pulling his housecoat back on. He sat back down in his chair and waited for John to continue. John was looking at the floor, his fingers twisting in his lap. "Sherlock," he started. "Why did you bite me?"

Sherlock looked to the floor. He should have known that John would start with this question. There was nothing for it now. He would tell the truth… anything John asked, Sherlock would tell the truth. "It's the beginning of the bonding ritual," he said, his eyes sliding up to look at John who looked even more confused.

"Bonding ritual?"

"I know I said I'd let you ask the questions, but I think it would be best if I started from the beginning." John nodded and sat forward in his chair. Sherlock took in a deep breath before continuing. "I am what's commonly called a Shape Shifter. I can only assume one shape, that of a black leopard. The gift is genetic; my father has the ability as well as my brother, Mycroft, of which I'm sure you already know." Sherlock stood then, he was too restless to sit, and started to slowly pace in a large circle around the living area.

"My parents used to be ambassadors to the Afghani government. Mycroft, who is nine years my senior worked with them. We lived in Kabul for a long time. However I stayed in London most of the year to attend a private boarding school that my parents thought would be best. I won't go into my school years… they're not the point of tonight's discussion." He glanced over at John who had an amused smirk. Sherlock could only imagine what John was thinking about his school years and it made him smile as well.

"Anyway, after university, I came to live in Kabul with my parents for a time. I'd never been one for politics, but I always loved a good puzzle, and it was actually Mycroft who put me to work finding out things for the embassy. Things like who blackmailed who, who had threatened who, who had murdered who," Sherlock paced faster. It entertained me… for a while. But my mind grew stagnant with all the political scams. I never had a real challenge; the motives were all the same."

Sherlock slowed down a little and came to a halt in the middle of the living area. His hands were clasped behind his back and his eyes were locked on the opposite window, but he wasn't looking out. "It was my last mission I was doing with Mycroft when I found you. We were out looking for a group of militants who were threatening the peace talks. On the way back, we passed by your hill. I was running beside Mycroft when your scent hit me. It was like someone had hooked me through the nose and was pulling me towards you. Your scent was so… so appealing." Sherlock looked down to the floor. His breaths were coming slightly faster and his pulse was higher than normal. _Odd… how just a memory can affect the body so_ , he thought to himself.

"I'd never smelt anything so alluring, and I had to make it mine. I didn't care if you belonged to anyone else; you were going to be mine. And so I took. Mycroft stepped in before I could finish the bonding. He told me that we didn't have time for any it, and to simply mark you and get it over with. He couldn't have known what I was going through; else he probably wouldn't have stopped me. As it was, his presence was enough to push me back into a somewhat logical mind and I decided to start the bond, to mark you.

"I intended to come back and finish the process, but it never happened and before I knew it I was on a plane to London. I spent the next two years searching for you, but no trace. I wondered if you were still in Afghanistan. I wondered if you'd been hurt or killed. It wasn't until that day in St. Bart's… when Stamford introduced us, that I knew you were even still alive. You know the rest of the story…"

John was silent for a long time, staring at his feet with his hands clasped in his lap. "So have you finished it then?" he finally murmured.

"Finished what?"

"The bonding?"

"No… being near you has strengthened the bond, but it is still incomplete."

"What exactly does finishing the bond entail?"

Sherlock glanced over at John who was staring at him. He felt blood infuse his cheeks and wished that his pale complexion didn't show it so easily. "Usually the bonding mark is followed by coitus. The exchange of fluids therein allow the bond to strengthen between the couple. Of course just being near the each other helps, but the bond doesn't quite know which way to go until coitus is achieved."

John was silent for a while once again. He cleared his throat before asking his next question. "You're telling me that we have to have sex?"

"Only if we want the bond to further."

"There's an option?"

"Yes, the bond is still weak enough that it could be broken with few side effects."

Another pause. "What makes you so sure I'd be a good mate?" John whispered.

Sherlock looked over at the sandy haired man and at once wanted to comfort him. It was obvious that John was having some kind of internal turmoil. "It all goes back to the first time I smelled you, John. As a Shape Shifter, it has been programmed into our genes to be able to find a good mate. Your scent tells me that you would make… a very worthy mate." Sherlock smiled.

John glanced up at the tall dark haired man, doubt still lingering in his visage. "You're genes tell you that another bloke is the best mate for you? Not very keen on keeping the lineage going, is it?"

Sherlock grinned and shrugged.

"Do you want to break the bond?" John asked quietly.

"I believe I've already answered that."

"Not directly."

"… no," Sherlock murmured. "Do you?"

"No."

Sherlock looked up at John hopefully.

"I've come to know you over the past few weeks, Sherlock, and I can honestly say that you've saved my life. After I was shot in Afghanistan, I couldn't find a purpose… a reason to keep going. But now I've come to realise that you're my purpose, Sherlock. Even if we were to remain friends and never mention anything of bonds or coitus again, I would still say you've given me a purpose. I don't want to go back."

Sherlock moved towards John and crouched down so they were on the same level. "You don't have to," he said quietly, one hand coming to rest on John's intertwined ones.

John looked up at Sherlock and smiled. "So this is it? We're going to be bond mates?" he chuckled a little.

"So it would appear," Sherlock replied smirking.

"What do we do next?"

"Whatever we want."

"But what about what you said… about coitus?" John blushed.

"We can work up to it."

John nodded. "I'd like to try something," he murmured.

"Whatever you want, John," Sherlock smiled.

John leaned forward slightly, his eyes flicking back and forth between Sherlock's blue gaze, checking to see if this was okay. Hesitantly, he bent forward and pressed his lips against Sherlock's cupid bow lips. It was soft and barely more than a touch, but it ignited something inside Sherlock and the man reached up to curl a hand around the back of John's head to pull him into a deeper kiss. His lips pressed firmer against John's and surprisingly, John pressed back. Sherlock let the kiss go on for a moment more before pulling back. Was John okay with this? A flushed face and heavy breath told him that yes, John had definitely been okay with that.

Sherlock smiled and John returned the gesture. "That went well," John remarked.

"Quite," Sherlock replied. "However I suggest we leave it at this for tonight. We both have a lot to think about and if we go any further, I don't think I'll be able to stop next time."

John nodded. "That's fine. I'm knackered anyway. Been a long day what with getting kidnapped by my bond mate's crazy brother."

Sherlock smiled. "I am sorry about that."

"I'm not," John replied. "I'm glad I know the truth now. That's something else I wanted to talk to you about though. I want you to tell me the truth from now on, Sherlock."

"I never actually lied to you before."

"No, but withholding something like this… something that affects us both so much… it's practically the same."

Sherlock nodded. "Alright. I promise."

"Thank you." John let out a long yawn then.

"I think it's time for bed," Sherlock grinned.

"Right, I'm off then."

"Goodnight, John," Sherlock said standing and helping John out of the chair.

"Night, Sherlock," John replied smiling.

With that, Sherlock watched as the sandy haired man ambled out of the living area and up the stairs to his own bedroom. Sherlock didn't need as much sleep as John, and would most likely stay up for another few hours. But that was okay, there was much to think about tonight, nearly all of it involving his soon-to-be bond mate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, so about here is where we break away from the first episode (unless I missed something really big... lol). I'm still not very sure about John's reaction to Sherlock. This is just kind of where my writing took me, so I went with it. I hope you like it.


	4. The Case of the Ginger Haired League

The next morning, John ambled down the stairs in a sleepy daze. He'd had a full night's sleep last night with no nightmares. His body automatically moved towards the kitchen and the small six-cup coffee pot that sat on the counter. Deftly, he put in a new filter and some coffee grounds before adding the water and pushing the button to start the process. Toast was next, as he slipped two slices of bread in the toaster. Next he made his way downstairs where the morning post was sitting just outside the door. He brought in both his and Mrs. Hudson's copy. By the time he made it back upstairs, his toast and coffee were ready.

As he made to spread raspberry jam over his toast, John felt a warm pair of arms encircle his waist and a cold nose bury itself in his neck. He smiled as he paused in his jam ministrations. "G'morning, Sherlock," he murmured.

The man behind him snuffled further into John's neck and squeezed his arms tighter, but did not respond verbally. John smirked and continued to put jam on his toast. Once he was finished he set the knife down and moved to pour a cup of coffee. Sherlock followed, not letting go of his bond mate. John shuffled along and set both plate of toast and cup of coffee on the table. It was at this point that he realized it would be very difficult to sit down. "Sherlock, I'd like to eat my breakfast now."

Sherlock grumbled, but finally let go of John and took a seat next to him instead. John happily ate his toast while reading the front page of the morning post, something about a foreign dignitary visiting the country soon. "Any cases?" Sherlock asked then.

John glanced up over the top of his paper and shook his head. "Nothing in here. Have you checked the website?"

"Boring."

"Really? I thought that one with the girl's fiancé was interesting."

"Men go missing all the time, John."

"Does that make it any less important that they be found?"

Sherlock gave him a side-long look. "They hadn't even met, John. They'd only exchanged e-mails back and forth and even then, no pictures. The boy probably got cold feet and ran out."

"Fine, what about that one with the man claiming something about a Ginger Haired League?"

Sherlock glanced up again, this time with more curiosity. "I have to admit that that one caught my eye."

"So? What are we doing here?"

"My thoughts precisely, John." At this Sherlock jumped out of his chair and hurried to his room where he proceeded to get dressed.

John shook his head indulgently, but folded up the paper and finished the last swallow of his coffee. Despite Sherlock's suddenly urgent desire for John to hurry up, John took a shower before getting dressed. However it resulted in Sherlock grabbing hold of his jacket and thrusting it at John before marching out the door and hailing down a cab. John let out an exasperated sigh and locked the door before joining Sherlock in the taxi. After telling the cabbie where to go, John relaxed back into the seat. In fact, he felt more relaxed than he had in ages. Glancing over at Sherlock, a feeling came over him, one of calm and content. He smiled. If this was what it felt like even when the bond was only partially complete, John could only imagine what it would be like with a full bond.

They arrived at their destination in Finsbury Park after thirty minutes or so driving. John had called their client to let them know they were coming, so when they arrived on the doorstep of the man's residence, the door flew open and a ginger haired man smiled at them, urging them to come inside. "Thank you so much for coming!" The man said leading them up some stairs to the parlor where fresh tea was waiting.

"Mr. Wilson," John addressed the man after he'd been settled with a cup of tea. "Why don't you tell us your story, and we'll see if we can help?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but didn't say anything as he sipped at his milky tea. Jabez Wilson, nodded and started his story. "I'm a pawnbroker, as you may have noticed. My shop's down stairs. Anyway, this all started when my assistant, Vincent Spaulding, pointed out an ad in the paper asking for red-haired men to fill a position. He thought I would fit the bill, so on a whim during lunch, I went to apply. To my surprise I got the position. Something about my hair being the exact shade of red they were looking for." The man took a sip of tea before continuing. "It was simple work, really. All I did was sit in an office and copy down paperwork. They gave me papers that needed to be typed and I sat there and typed them. Paid three hundred quid a week, so I wasn't going to complain about the mundaneness of it."

"This continued for about a month. Most of my business is done in the evening, so I was able to dedicate at least three mornings a week to the typing. That was, until two days ago I showed up and there was a sign on the door saying that the League of Red Haired Men has dissolved. Naturally I was confused, so I marched up to my office only to find it empty. The desk, the computer, the bookshelf, the papers, all of it gone! When I went down to ask the landlord of the building about a Red Haired League, he said he knew nothing, just that the space had been rented for a month by a Duncan Ross."

"Now, my query to you, Mr. Holmes, is what happened to the League? Where have they gone? Not to mention I do miss the extra money each week."

Sherlock was sitting very still in his chair, the milky tea halfway between saucer and mouth. "I believe, Mr. Wilson, that I will take the case."

"You will?" John and Mr. Wilson said at the same time.

John had thought the case not interesting enough for Sherlock, but apparently he was wrong. "Indeed," Sherlock replied, sipping from his tea. "A few questions though before we leave." Mr. Wilson nodded, and Sherlock continued. "Firstly, where was it that you did your work for the Red Haired League?"

"About five blocks away to the east. Quite convenient actually."

Sherlock nodded then asked, "How long has Mr. Spaulding, your assistant been working for you?"

"Oh I don't know. Probably about three months now. He's very promising. Does an excellent job with numbers."

Sherlock nodded. "And is he here today?"

"Yes actually. He should be down stairs getting ready for the afternoon business."

"Then I would like to speak to him."

"Of course, of course! By all means." Mr. Wilson waived a hand towards the door, and Sherlock sprang to his feet and marched down the stairs. John followed the lithe man, noticing the graceful way he carried himself and not believing how much like a cat he looked now that he knew of Sherlock's true nature. He smiled a bit as he followed Sherlock into the main office of the pawnbroker shop. "Vince?" Mr. Wilson called out.

There was silence for a moment before they heard someone clattering up the stairs from the basement. A moment later, a dark haired young man perhaps twenty three years old, emerged from the stairwell. "Sir?" he asked when he got to the top.

"What where you doing in the basement?"

"Sorry, sir. Needed more forms," he said holding up a small pile of paperwork."

"I thought you just brought some up yesterday? Never mind. These men would like to speak with you."

Vince turned his attention to Sherlock and John. Sherlock, eyed the young man speculatively. "Vincent Spaulding?"

"Aye, sir, that's me."

"How long have you worked here?"

"Going on three months now, Sir."

"And do you enjoy your job?"

"Yes, sir. I like being Mr. Wilson's assistant."

Sherlock nodded, then turned back towards John, and Mr. Wilson. "I think that will be all," he said with a false smile. "I'll get back to you when I have more information."

"Yes, yes, of course," Mr. Wilson nodded along, as Sherlock led John out of the shop and back into the street.

"What was that all about, Sherlock?" John asked once they were far enough away that Mr. Wilson wouldn't here.

"Hmm?" Sherlock hummed as he looked up and down the street, in particular, at the small bank just next door to Mr. Wilson's shop.

"I asked what that was all about. Do you know what's going on with the Red Haired League? I've never heard of it before."

"Of course you haven't, John. I expect it was only invented about three months ago." Sherlock smiled.

John furrowed in brow in confusion. "What are you on about?"

"I do believe I've just solved the case, but I believe we'll be needing Lestrade for this next part."

"You're going to ask Lestrade for help?"

Sherlock nodded and without any further commentary, flagged down a cab and directed it back to Baker Street. The entire time, his thumbs were flying over the keyboard on his phone. By the time they'd arrived back at Baker Street, Sherlock was done texting and had a rather smug grin attached to his face. "So are you going to explain at all?" John asked as he hung up his coat.

Sherlock grinned and stepped towards John, a predatory look in his eyes. "In a moment, I have something I need to do right now."

John's eyes widened and he took a step back. Sherlock closed the distance between them then, pressing John up against the wall as he attacked the shorter man's neck. John let out a low moan at the feel of Sherlock's warm length pressed up against him. Small kisses rained down his neck and face, followed by short nips to his skin. "Sherlock," John gasped out.

Sherlock let out a low growl that really didn't sound like anything a human should be able to do, and continued to lick and nip at John's neck. "Sherlock, hang on." With much will power, Sherlock backed off a little bit. His body was still plastered to John's, but he was no longer attacking the doctor's neck. "What brought this on?" John asked. "Not that I'm complaining, but…" he trailed off.

"I'm scenting you, John," Sherlock said as though this explained everything.

"You're what?"

Sherlock gave an exasperated sigh and backed away from John, but didn't loosen his grip on the doctor's hand. He led the shorter man to the sofa where they both sat down. "Scenting is the act of making something or someone smell like yourself."

"I know what scenting is, Sherlock. Why were you doing it to me?"

"Because I realized that I hadn't done it yet and that needed to be corrected."

John raised a speculative eyebrow at his flatmate. "It's because of the jacket, isn't it?" Sherlock smirked, but didn't say anything. "It still smells like your brother, so you want to make sure that I smell like you." Sherlock shrugged. John sighed exasperatedly. "Fine, it's all fine."

Sherlock grinned and nearly jumped John. The shorter man was pushed back as Sherlock stretched out over top of him. He let out a contented sigh as he nuzzled into John's neck. John allowed his flatmate to scent him, his hand running over Sherlock's back gently. "So are you going to tell me about the case? You said you solved it?"

"Oh, yes," Sherlock raised his head slightly. "I deduced it all nearly by the time we saw Vincent… if that's his real name." John raised an eyebrow perplexed. "Did you see the man's trousers, John? His knees were dirty." John blushed and looked away. "No! Nothing like that!" Sherlock reprimanded. "His knees were dirty because he'd been down in the basement where he was checking on the tunnel he and his associate, Duncan Ross (though I doubt that's his real name either), have been digging between Mr. Wilson's establishment and through to the bank next door."

"What? How is that even possible?"

"The bank is a very old one and doesn't quite have all the up-to-date features that newer ones do. For example, basement rooms that are lined with brick. Quite easy to break through in comparison to concrete, I should think." Sherlock's voice had that analytical tone he always used when deducing things, but his constant nuzzling along John's throat bespoke of what the man was truly concerned with.

"They're going to rob the bank? Sherlock, we need to stop them!" John tried to push Sherlock off, but the shape shifter growled and pinned John down once more.

"No need to worry, John. I intend to be there to see them caught, but the heist isn't planned till later tonight." Sherlock rested more comfortably on top of John as the shorter man relaxed at his flatmate's words.

"How do you know it'll be tonight?"

"Elementary, John. They've obviously finished digging the tunnel, else they wouldn't have dissolved the Red Haired League. They dug the tunnel while Jabez Wilson wasn't there, too much noise. As for why they haven't done it before? The League was dissolved only two days ago. They had to wait for tonight, because the bank is closed tomorrow, it being Sunday, and therefore they'll have a larger head start in leaving the country."

John was silent for a moment as he worked out everything Sherlock had just said. After a few minutes, he spoke again. "You've let Lestrade know? The texting on the way home?"

Sherlock nodded, managing to both answer John's question and nuzzle against him some more. John settled in and Sherlock went nearly boneless on top of him. Had anyone told John two days ago, that John would be this comfortable under his flatmate, he never would have believed them. However over the past forty-eight hours, everything had changed. John knew things he'd never thought possible now, which in turn made him wonder just what else was out there? If shape shifters existed, then what other mythological creature were out there? That was a conversation that he would have with Sherlock at a later time. Now, he was entirely too comfortable to think that much, so he closed his eyes and simply focused on Sherlock's steady breaths warming the side of his neck.

: : :

John jerked awake to the chiming of Sherlock's ringtone. He had to take a moment to remember where he was (under his flatmate, who was intimately close to his neck… well his entire body really). Sherlock stretched and nuzzled into John a bit more. "John," he murmured.

"Your phone, Sherlock."

"In my right pocket."

John sighed, but reached into Sherlock's right trouser pocket and retrieved his phone. The lit up screen announced that Detective Inspector Lestrade calling. "Lestrade?" John answered the phone.

"John?"

"Yeah, Sherlock's being lazy."

"Ah," Lestrade intoned, knowing exactly what John was talking about. "Right, well we need you guys to get to the bank. Sherlock mentioned the heist would take place around midnight."

John brought his watch up to eye level and was a bit surprised that it said twenty three hundred hours. "Right. I'll get him down there."

"See you soon."

John hung up and returned the phone to Sherlock's pocket. "We need to get down to the bank," John explained, trying to push Sherlock up. However the man was surprisingly heavy. "Sherlock," John nudged the man.

The detective groaned and slowly got to his feet. "Time?"

"Twenty-three hundred hours." John sat up as well.

At this, Sherlock jumped to his feet. "We're going to be late, John!" He ran to retrieve his shoes and threw John's at him.

John managed to duck the thrown shoes, and glared at his flatmate. "Sherlock, calm down. We'll get there with plenty of time." He proceeded to slip his shoes on, before rising to get his jacket. Sherlock had already wrapped his long heavy coat around him and tied his scarf. "It's only a twenty-five minute cab ride."

Sherlock wasn't listening though and impatiently held out John's jacket, allowing the older man to slip his arms in before spinning him around and zipping him up. "Come on, John," Sherlock led the way out the door, leaving John to lock up.

They caught a cab shortly and made it, just like John said, within twenty-five minutes. Greg Lestrade was waiting for them in an unmarked police car across the street from the bank along with three other officers. The silver haired man got out of the car and met them as they reached the front door to the bank. "Expected you here a bit earlier, truth be told," he said as he opened the door using the key the bank manager had given him earlier that day.

Neither Sherlock nor John replied, but Sherlock frowned as he led the group into the bank and down into the basement. John had been expecting some kind of obvious hole in the wall, but the room looked just as it should. Sherlock, however, seemed to know exactly what was going on. He marched up to the brick wall connected to Jabez Wilson's shop and knocked lightly in several spots before pointing at an area in particular. "This is where they'll come through. The wall is weakened here, but hasn't been broken through yet."

"Great, you two get back now," Lestrade said waving them away.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but did as Lestrade requested and moved with John to hide behind a row of boxes. Lestrade instructed two of the back-up officers to wait outside in case the burglars tried to run back through the tunnel and out Mr. Wilson's shop. Which left just Officer Lorentz with Lestrade. It was nearly time. John checked his watch again to discover it was just past midnight now. Sherlock tensed when he saw the time, but relaxed again when John put a calm hand on his thigh. They waited for several more long minutes. Sherlock knew it was imperative to remain quiet, but the still of the night was becoming almost unbearable. He knew that tonight was the night, was absolutely certain of it.

He was just about to get up, when they heard a soft scratching behind the wall. He and John rose to their knees to peer over the boxes, while Lestrade and Lorentz readied their stances on either side of the part of the wall Sherlock had pointed out. Next a dull thud could be heard and the brick started to crumble, bit by bit. Soon there was a hole large enough for a man to get through, and indeed a man did crawl through. "Freeze! Police!" Lestrade shouted as the second man's head was just appearing.

Both men froze for a second, but only for a second. The first man darted for the stairs, Officer Lorentz on his tail. The second attempted to crawl back into the tunnel. Lestrade made to crouch down and to follow, but Sherlock had already dove in, grabbing the man's ankles.

"Sherlock!"

"No!"

John and Lestrade shouted at the same time. Sherlock didn't listen though as he struggled with the man in the tunnel. Low grunts could be heard as kicks and punches were exchanged. Lestrade was about to attempt to crawl in the tunnel as well when a shocked yelp was heard. "SHERLOCK!" John yelled and rushed forward.

With Lestrade's help, John was able to pull his flatmate back through the tunnel opening. Despite the dark lighting, John could see the bloom of blood in between Sherlock's hands pressed over his abdomen. Lestrade gave John a worried look, but John shook his head. "I'll take care of him. Go!"

Lestrade's mouth tightened and he nodded before diving into the tunnel. Officer Lorentz had already cuffed and led the first man out of the basement, which left John and Sherlock alone. "You're so stupid, Sherlock! Why did you do that?" John reprimanded as he pried Sherlock's hands away from his wound to see the extent of the damage.

Sherlock grunted in pain as John ripped his silk shirt in order to see the stab wound. "I couldn't let him get away," he managed to say.

"Lestrade had it under control. You didn't have to get involved." John could see that though the wound was deep and would need stitches, it wasn't fatal. He reapplied pressure against the wound and hoped that Lestrade or one of the other officers would come back soon. He wasn't sure he could carry Sherlock outside. "We're going to have a long talk when we get home, but for now, put your hands back over here and put pressure on it."

Sherlock gasped as he put pressure on the wound, but kept the pressure steady. John, ignoring the fact that he had blood all over his hands, got Sherlock to sit up, and ducked under the detective's arm. With strength borne from years of army conditioning and adrenaline, John lugged Sherlock up and managed to pull him up the stairs.

A medic team had been called while John had been attending Sherlock, and they met the flatmates at the top of the stairs. With the additional help, John walked with Sherlock out to the medic's van where they rushed to staunch the bleeding. John stayed by Sherlock's side, giving advice that was probably not needed, but made him feel better. Sherlock would most likely need stitches and a blood transfusion, but John was nearly certain that he would live.

Several long minutes later, one of the medics led John to sit inside the van and wrapped a bright orange shock blanket around his shoulders. John rolled his eyes at the blanket, but gratefully accepted the tea the medic van's driver offered him from his own personal thermos.

"He going to be okay?" Lestrade asked walking over to John.

John nodded as he swallowed a sip of hot tea. "Yeah. He'll be bed ridden for a couple of days, but should be back to normal soon."

Lestrade scoffed. "A couple of days? If you can keep him in bed for more than eight hours I'll buy you a pint."

John laughed and nodded. "You're probably right. Did you get both men?"

"Yeah. Duncan Ross and Vincent Spaulding are aliases for Arthur Reed and Douglas Young. Both of whom are wanted for several counts of theft and breaking and entering. The yard's been looking for them for months. I hate to say it, but we really owe Sherlock for this one."

John smiled. "I won't tell him if you don't."

"Deal," Lestrade smirked. "Right. I've got loads of paperwork to do before I can pass out. Take care, John." Lestrade clasped a friendly hand on John's shoulder before walking back towards the other officers.

John took another sip of hot tea as the medic team loaded up the van and prepared to transport to the hospital. They allowed John to sit in the front for the journey and before John knew it, Sherlock was laying in a bed with an IV and stitches lacing up the jagged hole in his side. The orange shock blanket had been replaced by a hospital standard issue blanket and John's Styrofoam cup of tea had been refilled twice. John inhaled deeply as a yawn overtook him and leaned back in the uncomfortable hospital bedside chair. He set his cup of tea up on the window sill before it spilt, and was just about to close his eyes when a soft sound caught his attention.

"John," the soft moan came from Sherlock.

John's tiredness evaporated and he scooted closer. "Sherlock? I'm right here, Sherlock." John rested his hand on top of Sherlock's cold one, wrapping his fingers around it. There was a slight twitch in the hand before it curled loosely around John's.

Sherlock seemed to relax back into the bed even more, giving into the pain-numbing drugs. He fell back asleep, and John smiled as he scooted his chair closer so he could keep a hold of Sherlock's hand while he slept. Leaning forward, John rested his head on his arm on the bed and closed his eyes, submitting the exhaustion that was had been knocking at him for hours now. He didn't care that his neck and back and shoulder would hurt in the morning. All that mattered was that Sherlock was safe and would be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, so I hope you're enjoying this so far! The reviews have been very positive. I have a pretty good idea of where the story line will be going. Now I just need to write it. sigh Wish me luck!


	5. The Diogenes

It had been two hours since Sherlock had been released from the hospital and John was just about ready to punch him in the face. "Sherlock, you need rest. Your body can't heal if you don't lay still," John explained as he gently pushed the man back down onto his rarely used bed.

"John, I heal faster than you. I'll be fine! I just need to go down to the morgue. Molly got in a cadaver that was poisoned by actaea pachypoda. I wanted to observe the effects it has on the cardiac system."

John's brow furrowed. "White baneberry?"

Sherlock's eyes widened in surprise, but it didn't last long. "Precisely. I need to get down there before the family collects the body tomorrow."

"You don't need to do anything. You're going to tire yourself out and the wound won't heal, then you'll get an infection and have to spend even more time resting." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I'll bring you anything you need. I'll even stay in here to keep you company."

Sherlock looked John up and down for a long minute before nodding. John sagged with relief. "Great. I'm just going to go grab a few things. Did you need anything?"

"Some tea?"

"Of course," John nodded and went out into the kitchen.

It took perhaps fifteen minutes to heat the water and prepare a tea tray. However, when John walked back into Sherlock's bedroom, it was to find a black panther curled up on top of the bed fast asleep. The deep slow breaths of the giant cat ruffled the fur of its tail, which was wrapped around its body. John gazed in awe at the panther. He'd only seen Sherlock in his alternate form once before, and that was only for a few seconds.

There was just something utterly captivating about the animal before him. The course coat was not just black. It was iridescent and shone with an astounding array of blues and purples when under different lights. The enormous paws were capable of sprouting vicious claws, but were currently relaxed in sleep and curled over Sherlock's muzzle as though to keep his nose warm. The softly curled body of the panther was layered in corded muscle, the long thick tail not excluded. However what most held John's attention was the simple fact that he did not feel fear towards this dangerous, powerful creature.

In fact, John was having a difficult time categorizing the emotions he was feeling. There was no tightness in his gut nor tremor in his hands. There was no urge to flee before the panther woke. There were no ragged breaths exhaled through quivering lungs. There was instead a relaxed feeling that surrounded him, as though his muscles had all decided to go limp. His breaths were slow and even, and his mouth curved up in a small smile. He was sure the steady thump in his chest was audible even to the panther, and was a bit surprised the cat hadn't woken from it.

Perhaps this was what it meant to be a bond mate? John sat down on the edge of the bed after setting the tea tray down on the nightstand. Had someone told John a year ago that he would be falling in love with a man, let alone a shapeshifter, he probably would have laughed at them and walked away. However here he was. There was something that drew him to Sherlock. He could feel his heart quicken whenever the man so much as said his name. John smiled. He really was being ridiculous… like a teenager. Sherlock had mentioned that just spending time together would strengthen their bond. John could tell now, that it was true. He could feel a deep connection to the shapeshifter, and in all reality, that scared him.

What was he doing here? His life had changed directions so fast; he was still trying to catch up. One day he'd been a soldier, just home with an honorable discharge. Then the next he was in a relationship with an impossible man who could do impossible things. John took in a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart. He needed to get away for a little bit. Glancing over at the black panther, John decided Sherlock would be fine for a while. Moving quickly, he left the bedroom, grabbed his jacket and slipped on his shoes before exiting the building.

Regency Park wasn't too far away and provided walking paths. Hands stuffed in pockets against the damp chill, John made his way into the park and chose a path at random. He kept to the side of the path to make way for the joggers, few that they were. Breathing in deep, he took in the London air and exhaled, imagining all tension leaving with it. It was something that he'd learned while in the army. In order to make a clean shot, you needed to be calm. Taking in slow deep breaths helped to calm a racing heart.

Once John's pulse had slowed, he turned his mind back to what had initially caused the spike. Sherlock was slowly taking over his life. It was a fact. And he really hadn't put up that much of a resistance, despite the fact that it was contrary to everything he had wanted when he was younger. Well… if he redefined some things, it might fit. Technically, he could still back out of this whole thing. The bond had not been finalized, so John could still leave. He had a choice.

But did he really? Even the thought of leaving Sherlock right now, of never seeing him again, tore something inside of John. This bond thing had gotten inside his head and messed with his emotions. What could he be doing right now if he'd never met Sherlock? Have a steady girlfriend? Be a well-paid doctor in an upscale hospital? John would never know.

Frowning, he kicked absently at a rock on the side of the path, sending it skittering along the asphalt. He stopped then and looked around. During his inner rant, he'd managed to get to the complete other side of the park from where he'd entered. The walk back to 221b wasn't looking appealing at the moment. He wasn't sure he could face Sherlock, but Sherlock needed him. No, Sherlock could take care of himself. He's a grown man. "John Watson?" A familiar voice behind him asked.

John spun to see Mycroft Holmes' assistant, Anthea. "Anthea?"

"Taylor today, sir," she corrected him.

"Taylor then."

"If you'll follow me, sir." She said turning towards the nearest exit to the park.

She didn't even look back to see if John was following, and he didn't… for a few seconds. Then he hurried to catch up with her. "Mycroft want to speak with me again?" Taylor didn't answer. "Right. I'll have you know that I can't always be expected to drop everything when he calls. In fact, I really should be getting back to Sherlock now."

Taylor still didn't say anything, but she gave him an amused smile. John rolled his eyes and continued to follow her. They wove along the path for a few minutes until the exit loomed in the mist. A black sedan sat waiting for them, and Taylor opened the rear passenger door for John. Glancing inside quickly, John determined that he might as well go along with whatever Mycroft wanted. The man would get it eventually anyway.

The car pulled out into traffic after Taylor had gotten in and sped off. The ride was silent. The only sound was the soft clicking of keys as Taylor texted away on her Blackberry. John tried to initiate conversation twice (once about the weather and once about where they were going), but Taylor hadn't answered either time. Sighing, John settled back in the seat and decided to just wait it out.

It wasn't too very long after that that the car pulled up to a large building with a simple façade. John got out of the car and Taylor led him up the stairs and inside the double heavy wooden doors. He noticed a plaque on the building labeling it as the Diogenes Club. Inside, the building was decorated with class, simple but elegant. It was also very, very quiet. John was hesitant to even breath, let alone ask where they were going. Eventually, Taylor stopped in front of a blank wooden door. John glanced at her, but she was still texting away on her Blackberry. He shook his head as he turned the handle and let himself in. The room he'd been led to held bookcases inlaid into the wall, tall windows that let in copious amounts of light, and intricate Persian rugs lay on the wooden floor. Two chairs sat facing each other; a small table with a bottle of brandy and two glasses sat beside one of the chairs. John looked up from the brandy to see Mycroft Holmes going through a folder of paperwork. Next to him sat a desk with more folders.

"John," he greeted the doctor without looking up. "How nice to see you. Please do have a seat."

John let out an annoyed sigh, but sat anyway. "What do you want, Mycroft?"

"Getting straight to the point." Mycroft looked up at John as he set the folder down on the desk. "Fine then. I can appreciate a man who doesn't dally around." The elder Holmes slowly walked around the table and poured himself a finger of the dark liquid then sat down, crossing one leg over the other. "You've left my brother," he said simply before taking a sip.

"What? No, I haven't."

"Just now, you did. You took a walk in Regency Park to sort things out because you were starting to have a panic attack."

"That's…"

"No need to deny it, John," Mycroft said conversationally. "Cameras, you know. There's very little I don't see."

John gripped the arms of the chair tightly and looked down. Anger was starting to boil to the surface and it wouldn't do to throttle Mycroft in his own office. "What do you want, Mycroft," John asked again once he'd calmed a little.

"If I were to offer you a large sum of money, would you leave my brother and never look back?"

John looked up at him, his brow furrowed. What was Mycroft playing at?

"Oh no need to look at me that way, John. After all, it's what you were thinking about just before I brought you here, wasn't it?" John's gaze dropped again. "I thought so." Mycroft took another sip of brandy.

They were both silent for a long couple of minutes before John spoke again. "What happens during a bond?" he asked quietly.

Mycroft gave him a curious look, but answered the question. "A bond is a chemical attachment that happens between two compatible individuals. It may be initiated by simply being near each other, but isn't finalized until there is an exchange of bodily fluids during coitus."

"I know… I know all of that," John replied. "What I mean is… what makes the two individuals compatible? Do they even have a choice?"

"Ah," Mycroft intoned. "You're worried that the bond is taking over your mind, that it isn't actually you feeling these things between you and my brother."

John nodded. His eyes moved up to look at Mycroft. A small smile sat there as though he knew a secret. "I can assure you, John, that you would not be feeling these things if you weren't somewhat attracted to my brother. Everyone has a choice. You can still walk away if you think it's the right thing. However before you do, know that Sherlock has never found another compatible mate, until you. My brother is a unique individual, and as a result it seems his taste in mates is also unique."

John raised a single eyebrow. Was Mycroft insulting or complimenting him? Rolling his eyes, John let it go. "So, if I were to just leave, eventually these feelings would fade?"

"That is correct. It is similar to other romantic attachments in that aspect. It is also similar in that the feelings may never completely fade away. This is especially true of perfect bond mates."

"Perfect bond mates?"

Mycroft sipped at his brandy before answering. "We can bond with anyone, John, and the feeling of connection will be there. However there are individuals who are more compatible and it is here where we see perfect bond mates. Those who are uniquely suited to each other. I believe it was Plato who once said 'Humans were originally created with four arms, four legs and a head with two faces. Fearing their power, Zeus split them into two separate beings, condemning them to spend their lives in search of their other halves.' So you see, we may find some who fit a little better than others, but there will only be one who fits perfectly."

John sat motionless, everything Mycroft had told him running through his head. It was a lot to take in, but it seemed he did have a choice. It would most likely leave Sherlock miserable, but it was an option. Did he want to leave? John thought about it. If he left, he could have a normal life. Maybe move to the country and take up a private practice? As soon as the idea crossed his mind though, another followed on its tail. _How utterly dull_. Living with Sherlock these past couple of months had been the most fulfilled he'd felt since leaving Afghanistan. With Sherlock, he felt useful. He felt needed. Not to mention the adrenaline pumping chases through London's night were fun too.

A smile crossed John's face, and he knew what he wanted to do. Looking up at Mycroft, he nodded once. Mycroft smiled as well and lifted his glass towards John. "Do take care of my brother, won't you?"

John nodded and left. Taylor was waiting for him, and led him back to the car. The ride back to 221b was short and soon enough, John was through the front door and striding up the stairs. "Sherlock?" he called out, headed toward the detective's bedroom. There, laying on the bed in nearly the same position as he'd left him in, was the giant black panther. John smiled at the cat affectionately and crossed the room to sit down on the edge of the bed.

One hand hesitantly reached out and settled on the great cat's flank. He twitched, but didn't wake. Slowly, John ran his hand down the course fur, admiring the way it shone in the dull lighting. John slipped off his shoes and jacket then before carefully crawling up the bed. It was wide enough to easily hold two full-grown men. He settled near the headboard, his back resting against the pillows stacked there, and his thigh just barely brushing against the panther's spine. He let his hand rest on the panther's side as he relaxed back into the warm comfort of the bed. As his mind started to drift off, there was one prominent thought in John's head. He would be crazy to leave this behind. This wonderful, unique individual who made John feel needed.

: : :

Some hours later, John woke up to a strong arm wrapped around him. His brain took a moment to process that, and then he realized that the arm had fur, lots of fur. Opening his eyes, John looked down to see the panther had moved during his slumber so that now he was half lying across John's lap. There was a low rumbling coming from the panther's chest and his front paws were flexing and retracting. He'd seen cats do this before, and had been told it was called kneading. However, Sherlock was going to knead holes in his trousers if he didn't stop with those huge claws. "Sherlock," John said quietly.

The cat remained where he was. "Sherlock!" This time, John pushed the cat to the side with a small grunt of effort. A low growl left the cat's throat, but he didn't stop John when he pushed him off. "Sherlock, we need to talk. Can you change back?"

If panther's could roll their eyes, John was sure Sherlock would be doing so. However the reversal processes of changing back to human began. The fur slowly shrunk and the cat's bones changed and shifted until Sherlock's lean long body was lying beside John. John's face blushed a deep red as he realized that Sherlock was nude. Once again, Sherlock rolled his eyes, but reached for the quilt to cover up his lower half. "Ehm… thanks," John said.

"You wanted to talk, John?"

"Erm, yes."

"You've been to see my brother," Sherlock stated, his brow furrowing.

"Not my decision. However it did help." Sherlock raised a single eyebrow and indicated for John to continue. "I was having doubts about being bonded," he started out. "I didn't know if the bond was taking over my mind or if I was making my own decision."

"John…"

"Let me finish please." Sherlock nodded at John's upheld hand, and John continued. "I was confused, and obviously your brother was watching me because he sent a car round to pick me up. We talked, and he explained things. How bonds work and how there are perfect bonds." John was quiet for a moment. Sherlock held still as though waiting for the axe to fall.

"I have thought things through a bit and decided that there's no other place I'd rather be, than right here," John said slowly. He glanced over at Sherlock who was staring at him.

The detective didn't say a single word as he shifted to sit up. His eyes never left John's though. "Sherlock?" John asked.

Sherlock replied by gently pulling John toward him. One hand wrapped around the back of John's head, leading him forward into a gentle kiss. Soft lips met warm chapped ones, and John found his eyes closing as his senses all redirected to be more receptive towards the slow, but passionate kiss his mate was giving him. All too soon, Sherlock pulled back. "Could I have some tea, John?" he asked.

John's brain took a moment to catch up with what was being asked. "Tea?"

"Yes, you know… hot water? Tea bags? Sugar?"

"I know what tea is, Sherlock," John sighed. He supposed that the kiss was as close to a thank you that he was going to get from Sherlock. He sighed dramatically as he left the bed to make tea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes this is a day early! Consider it my fluffy Valentine's Day present to all of you! lol... Hope you all are enjoying the story and stay tuned, because stuff is about to get real!


	6. Relax

"John hurry up!" Sherlock called from farther down the alley.

John struggled to move faster. They'd been chasing this cat burglar for ten blocks now and had nearly caught up to him. However the guy was lithe and quick. Whenever John thought he was finally in their grasp, he would do some quick movement, usually involving a bit of parkour, and escape once again. John saw the man they were pursuing turn quickly and saw an opportunity. He was far enough behind that he could turn into the alley before the building. Putting on a fresh burst of speed, the former army doctor flew down the alley and turned at the end in front of a woman carrying a sack of groceries.

Her call of "Hey! Watch it!" was lost on him as he sped away. John rushed past curious onlookers, looking for the cat burglar. Just as he was starting to think he had missed him, the criminal came rushing out of the alley in front of him, and John leapt. They both crashed to the ground, the air leaving their lungs in a rush and the harsh cement greeting their skin with scrapes. The man below John struggled to get free, but John held tight. "I don't want to hurt you!" John tried to warn the man, however he kept struggling and managed to twist about a bit and punch John in the side of the head.

Stunned, John's grasp loosened. However Sherlock was there presently and recaptured the thief. Handcuffs appeared from one of the numerous pockets in the detective's long wool coat, and the thief seemed to realize his defeat once they were on. "John?" John heard Sherlock call him.

The thief had punched John in the temple and his head was spinning and ears were ringing as a result. "Yeah," he replied.

Sherlock's worried face swam into view as John turned his head to see him. An inhuman growl left Sherlock's throat and he threw the criminal into the brick wall of the building beside them. People were now avoiding them on the street and John could hear the scream of sirens drawing closer. What seemed only a minute later, but was probably five or ten, John felt a strong hand pulling him to his feet. "John? You okay, mate?" Lestrade's voice asked.

John was having a difficult time focusing on anything, let alone walking, of which he realized as he slumped into whoever had helped him up. He only heard bits and pieces of the conversation thereafter, given the ringing in his ears. Lestrade said something about an ambulance to which Sherlock growled and pulled John closer to him. Lestrade then countered with an offer of a ride back to 221b, and John lost track of what happened next, but the next thing he knew, he was in a car with Sherlock. Sherlock's arm was wrapped tightly around John's shoulder and John turned his head to press his face into Sherlock's warm wool coat. Inhaling deeply, he calmed as the familiar scent washed over him.

Soon thereafter, John felt himself being pulled up the stairs to 221b and pushed down onto a soft bed. The urge to just give in and close his eyes was tempting, but he was pretty sure he had a minor concussion and that meant staying awake for a little while longer. "John? John tell me what to do," Sherlock's low baritone inquired.

"Eyes," John said quietly. "Pupils the same?"

He felt Sherlock's thumb gently brush over his eyelid, lifting it to see whether both pupils were the same. A small light shone in each eye a few times before Sherlock released him. "Pupils are fine, and reacting normally."

"Good, good," John murmured. "Rest. Just need rest."

"Do I need to wake you?"

John closed his eyes, but nodded. "Every hour. Just to make sure I haven't gone into a coma."

"Is that likely?" Sherlock's voice sounded worried.

John shook his head slightly. "No, only a minor concussion. Just procedure."

John could feel himself slipping into sleep when a warm body pressed itself along his back. "Sherlock?" he slurred.

"Just sleep, John," Sherlock's soothing voice replied as a long arm wrapped around John's middle, securing him to Sherlock's long body.

John nodded and let Morpheus carry him away.

: : :

Sherlock gazed down at his mate, a frown crossing his face. John had been hurt today, and he hadn't been there to stop it. Of course Sherlock knew that it wasn't his fault, but he still felt responsible. Their bond was growing stronger every day, but Sherlock couldn't help but wonder how John would change when it was complete. There weren't very many documented cases of two males creating a bond. Mycroft had been researching it, Sherlock knew, but had come up with very little. Mostly that the bond would be the same as with a male/female couple. The feelings and ability to sense each other's presence would be the same, but Sherlock couldn't help but wonder about other abilities.

Every bonded couple was different. Some took on more abilities of their partner, and some didn't take on any. Perfect bonds tended to take on more, and while Sherlock was nearly positive that John was his perfect bond mate, there was still the small kernel of doubt in his mind. He'd gone his entire life without even the slightest inclination to take a mate. None of the people he'd met in the entirety of London or Kubal appealed to him. John. John was the only one. If John turned him down, Sherlock didn't know what he'd do. Of course, he was fairly certain that danger was past. John had had his doubt and settled it.

Sherlock looked down at the man curled against him. John's dirty blond hair shone slightly in the dim light coming in from the window. His soft inhales were followed by an equally soft exhale, the gentle movements of each causing Sherlock's hand to rise and fall. The harsh lines on John's face from years in the army had smoothed out slightly in his sleep. It made John look younger than he actually was, and Sherlock found that he liked the peaceful look on John's face. He could see himself waking up to it in the mornings, and that thought alone put a large grin on Sherlock's face. Settling down and tucking his face into the back of John's neck, Sherlock made himself comfortable for the wait till he needed to wake John again.

: : :

It had been five days since the concussion and John was nearly positive that there were no lingering effects. However he'd noticed that Sherlock had kept very close. Whenever John was in the living room, Sherlock was too. Whenever John got up to make tea, Sherlock would casually move into the kitchen as well to 'check on an experiment'. When John went up to his room to get something, Sherlock would follow him up claiming to need something from the linen closet. In all reality, John was getting kind of sick of it.

It wasn't like he was going to drop dead anytime soon. And he'd been a doctor for over two decades now, he was pretty sure he knew the symptoms of a concussion and what to look for for complications during recovery. He even told Sherlock a couple of times that he was fine, but the detective persisted in following John around.

Currently, John was sitting in the living room typing on his blog. Sherlock was sitting close to him on the sofa, reading a science journal. It was the quietest John had ever heard Sherlock, and it was becoming worrying. Right as John was going to speak to Sherlock though, the detective's phone rang. Sherlock reached over to the coffee table to retrieve his mobile and flipped it open. "Lestrade."

John listened carefully, but couldn't quite make out Lestrade's end of the conversation. "Five? Where?" A short pause then, "We'll be there shortly." Sherlock hung up and turned to grin at John. "Five dead bodies have been found in an abandoned warehouse in Camden Town!" Sherlock was practically vibrating. "Quickly now, John!" Sherlock said as he rose from the sofa and rushed to get dressed (he'd been lounging in his old ratty blue house coat). John rolled his eyes, but smiled. This was more like the Sherlock he knew.

In short order, John and Sherlock were in a cab on their way to Camden Town. It was a short ride, perhaps fifteen minutes to the specified warehouse. Police tape and cars surrounded the area, and their cabby threw them a suspicious look, but didn't say anything as he took John's money and drove away. Sally Donovan gave them a glare as they ducked under the bright yellow tape. "Freak's here," she said into her radio as they passed.

"Nice to see you're cleaning Anderson's floors again, Sally. I'm sure his wife will want to thank you when she gets back from visiting her sister," Sherlock replied, not looking at her as they walked past.

"I – you! …" Sally sputtered, but they didn't hear anymore than that.

"Lestrade," Sherlock greeted the silver haired man as they entered the warehouse.

"Over there, behind the crates," Lestrade replied, getting down to business and leading the way to the bodies.

John was prepared, but the sight of so many nude bloody bodies was still a shock to see. Sherlock, clinical as ever, didn't hesitate as he began his assessment. "They weren't killed here. No blood on the floor. This was just a dumping ground." He circled around them slowly, each body undergoing his razor scrutiny. "All share common features, male, similar build. I'd say they were all in the armed forces." Sherlock circled back until he was standing beside John. "John?" he invited the former army doctor to inspect the bodies.

Resolving his nerve, John pushed the emotional side of his brain to the back and took a trained clinical eye to the bodies as he crouched next to the closest one. His gloved hand ran along one of the stitched up cuts along the front left of the abdomen. "These are surgically precise incisions and sutures. Whoever did this has been trained in the medical field."

"A doctor?" Lestrade asked.

John nodded. "A plastic surgeon I'd say." Sherlock crouched next to John to examine the incision with him. John pointed out the method of the stitches. "This is a common stitch used with plastic surgeons. The sutures used are unique though."

"I'd imagine there are a limited amount of surgeons who use it then?" Sherlock piped up.

John nodded again. Lestrade could be heard scribbling in his notepad. "Why stitch up someone you intended to kill?" John asked looking over at Sherlock.

"Look at where the incisions are, John." Sherlock pointed to the various incisions across the torso of the body before them.

John looked closer for a minute before his eyes widened. "Organ harvesting. Whoever's doing this is stealing organs."

Sherlock nodded. "The killer takes out one organ at a time, allowing for the victim to suffer all the more. He takes unimportant ones first, then moves on to the larger ones as the victim becomes less likely to survive. They're basically meat sacks keeping the organs fresh before the killer needs to harvest them."

Silence filled the warehouse at this pronouncement. Sherlock looked around to see Lestrade, John, and the few others on Lestrade's team staring at him. "Bit not good?" Sherlock asked quietly of John.

John shook his head, "Bit not good," he confirmed.

Sherlock grimaced, but continued with his observations, getting up to move around to some of the other victims. "Your killer is someone who's left handed, a plastic surgeon with at least a decade of surgery under his belt, and has a grudge against veterans with combat experience."

"How do you know they had combat experience?" Lestrade asked, jotting down everything Sherlock was saying.

"They've all been wounded," Sherlock pointed out several areas on the different victims where wounds had been acquired, but had been allowed to heal over time. "Bullet wound," he pointed to the thigh of one man. "Shrapnel, most likely from an IED," he pointed to the abdomen of another soldier. "Another bullet wound," he pointed to the shoulder of yet another victim.

"Alright, I get it," Lestrade said.

"They've all been discharged within the last year and a half judging by the tan lines and hair cuts. You'll want to send out a warning to all other soldiers back from combat within the last year and a half and befitting these men's stature and build."

"Great, looks like we've got ourselves a serial killer," Lestrade groaned.

Sherlock grinned, but a look from John made him drop it. "I trust you can handle it from here?"

Lestrade nodded and turned to give orders out to various members of the task team. Sherlock made to get up, but stopped, his eyes riveted to one of the men's arms. Carefully, with gloved hands, he reached out and picked up a dead bug from the man's arm. "What is it?" John asked.

The detective squinted at the bug for a moment. "A beetle of some sort. I'm not sure what kind." He pulled out an empty specimen bag from his pocket and slipped the beetle inside.

"That's evidence, Sherlock," John said in a stern voice.

"Yes, and I'll point it out, but I'm taking this one with me."

The blond man rolled his eyes, but didn't protest anymore. It was soon after that, that Sherlock and John were back at Baker Street. "I suppose you'll be trying to figure out what kind of beetle that is?" John asked, hanging up his coat.

Sherlock didn't answer, but instead threw his coat over the back of John's chair and proceeded into the kitchen and his microscope. John sighed and hung up Sherlock's coat. At least the detective wasn't hovering over him anymore. The blond man continued on into the kitchen where he picked up a take-out menu to one of their favorite Thai restaurants. "Any requests for dinner?" he asked waving the menu at Sherlock. The dark haired man didn't answer. "Right… I'll just get your usual then."

Twenty minutes later, John was eating Tom Yam Goong and Sherlock was absently picking at his Massaman Curry. Normally, Sherlock wouldn't touch food until after a case was closed, however John had discovered that threatening to take away the detective's microscope, for instance, encouraged him to eat. He didn't eat nearly as much as John would've liked, but at least it was something.

John watched as Sherlock went back and forth between a large reference book perched against a pile of other texts on the table and looking through the microscope at the beetle. He could tell Sherlock was getting frustrated. His suspicions were proven correct when Sherlock let out a growl and pushed the reference book away. The blond man waited for a minute, before rising to put away the left over food. After putting the Thai on a shelf in the fridge designated as 'FOOD ONLY', John turned back to Sherlock who was still pouting. "Sherlock?" he addressed the detective softly.

Sherlock's shoulders slumped at the sound of John's voice, but he didn't acknowledge him in any other way. "Sherlock, perhaps you need a break? Get some rest, maybe?"

"I can't, John. You know this," he replied still not looking around.

"I know you have a drive to solve the puzzle and ignore all other things, including the needs of your body."

"Transport," Sherlock corrected quietly.

John smiled. "Your transport then. However you're stumped on this for now and what harm could some relaxation do?"

"I can't relax. Physically, I cannot, John. Not until the puzzle is solved," Sherlock turned to look at John with this statement. There was an odd pleading tone in his voice, as though he was begging John. What he was begging for, John wasn't quite sure.

"What if I were to help you?" John asked.

Sherlock raised a curious eyebrow at his flatmate and turned to fully face him. "How?"

John smiled. "Go into the bedroom and sit on the bed. I want you to close your eyes and take deep breaths until I come in."

The dark haired man gave John a curious look, but didn't ask what he was planning. Instead he quietly did as John had asked. After Sherlock had disappeared into his bedroom, John went to the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet. Inside was an assortment of various painkillers, bandages, sutures, needles, and antiseptic. However there was also a bottle of baby oil, and that was what John grabbed. He returned to the kitchen and turned the tap on to a luke warm before putting the bottle under the stream. He didn't want to shock Sherlock with cold oil.

Finally, once the oil had been warmed to room temperature, he entered Sherlock's bedroom to find the man sitting still with eyes closed on the edge of the bed. He almost could have been asleep, if John didn't notice the slight stiffening in his frame at the sound of the door opening and closing. "Keep your eyes closed, Sherlock," John said as he crossed the room to kneel before his flatmate.

John set the bottle of oil down on the side of the bed next to him quietly before gently touching Sherlock's knees. "If you feel uncomfortable or want me to stop for any reason, let me know."

Sherlock nodded, his eyes still closed and his breathing still coming in slow deep breaths. John smiled and continued by running his hands down Sherlock's legs to gently slip his socks and shoes off. He set them aside and after rubbing Sherlock's long narrow feet for a minute, journeyed back up to rub small circles in the man's thighs. "Okay?" John asked.

Sherlock nodded slowly. John's hands left the detective's thighs for a moment, but returned to unbutton the purple silk shirt, starting at the top and working his way down with steady skilled fingers. Sherlock's body stiffened a little at John's fingers near his throat, but then relaxed again as they steadily worked downward. After the fine shirt was unbuttoned, John stood to slip it from Sherlock's lanky frame. His warm hands smoothed over Sherlock's shoulders and arms as he slid the shirt down and over the shapeshifter's hands. As he pulled the shirt away, he pressed a gentle kiss to Sherlock's forehead.

"Alright, now I want you to lay down on your front on the bed," John directed.

Sherlock kept his eyes closed as he deftly maneuvered his long body so that it lay stretched out on the bed. His head turned to one side so he could breath properly and his arms came up to curl under the pillow. "I'm going to straddle you now, so don't be alarmed. It's just so I can reach you properly," John said as he swung one leg over his flatmate and settled down on the tops of Sherlock's thighs.

He reached over and grabbed the bottle of baby oil, and squeezed a bit into his palm. The blond rubbed his hands together to get them both coated before gently beginning to smooth the calming oil along Sherlock's shoulders and across his back. Once the expanse of pale smooth skin before John was coated in oil, he placed on hand on top of the other and began to rub small circles up one side of Sherlock's back and down the other, using his palm only.

Slowly, the shapeshifter's muscles relaxed as John worked up and down his back several times. Once John was sure that Sherlock had relaxed completely, he began to run his knuckles up and down Sherlock's back. He let his fists rest on the brunet's back, never putting too much pressure on, and went up and down one side, then the other. Sherlock was now letting out small noises. They were barely audible, but John could hear the occasional moan, which made John smile as he switched to running his thumbs along Sherlock's spine.

John slowly became lost in the work, letting his hands run over Sherlock's lean back, bringing the man relaxation. It was soothing in it's own right. However it was at this point that John realized two things. One, he had the beginnings of a hard-on. Two, he was pretty sure, Sherlock did too.

Taking in a deep breath, John thought of other things. He began to mentally go over the muscles in the back, reciting them like he had in his years at university. However after ten more minutes of massaging, John realized that it wasn't helping matters. Slowly, he finished the stroke he was doing, and leaned back. "Sherlock?" he asked as Sherlock went still.

"Thank you, John," Sherlock replied quietly.

"Right, I'll just… erm… I'll go then. Let you get some rest."

John swung his leg back over Sherlock and moved to get off the bed. However a hand caught his calf. He looked back to see Sherlock laying on his side now, facing him. "Stay," he said. His voice was neither commanding nor questioning. If John had to qualify it, it was suggestive. Sherlock's entire body was lax and yet John could still see the outline of his half hard cock through his trousers. "Sherlock, I'm not sure that's a good idea."

Sherlock's hand left John's calf, sliding down to rest on the bed. His eyes averted and he stared down at his hands. John immediately felt guilt swoop through him. Carefully, he laid down beside the shapeshifter. Sherlock glanced up at him, his eyes a pale blue that John found captivating, especially because it was the exact same as when he transformed into a black panther. "I – It's not that I don't want to," John started. "It's just that, I think it's still too soon. We haven't even lived together for a year."

"It's fine, John," Sherlock replied. There was something in his tone though that told John that it wasn't really fine. "I understand why you wouldn't want to commit too soon."

"This isn't about commitment."

"Isn't it?"

"No, this is about taking our time. Getting to know one another a bit before tying ourselves together forever."

Sherlock's eyes dropped again and he seemed to curl in on himself a bit. John gently ran a hand down the detective's arm. "Soon," John said quietly. "I just need to sort some things out in my head a bit. I promise."

Sherlock nodded, but didn't respond in any other way. John frowned, but didn't push the matter. Instead he scooted closer to the taller man and hugged him close. There would need to be discussions, but they could wait till morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the late chapter! Real life decided to be a douche and not allow me time to write. Hopefully this doesn't happen too often. Also, sorry for leaving you hanging on this chapter. I know! You all thought you were FINALLY going to get some Johnlock smut, but it just isn't in the cards at the moment. Don't worry, it WILL come eventually! (no pun intended… okay, maybe a bit)


	7. More Than Meets The Eye

The morning after the massage, John had woken to find Sherlock missing from the bed. The sheets were cold, so he'd been up for a while. John sighed as he rolled out of bed and pulled a housecoat on over the thin sleep clothes he wore. He rubbed his face as he wandered into the bathroom and started up the shower. It was nice to let himself sink into the daily ritual of shower, shave, brush teeth… it felt normal. He didn't need to think about them and he could let the actions fill his mind. Anything to not think about Sherlock for a bit longer.

It was all so complicated. John didn't know how to explain to Sherlock why he didn't want to seal the bond. It's just that every time he thought about it, a flutter of nervousness swept through him and he kind of felt like throwing up. He knew it was irrational. He liked Sherlock. He really did, and he wanted to explore how much farther their relationship could go, but the idea of tying himself to one person for the rest of his life was terrifying. Perhaps Sherlock was right? Maybe this was about commitment.

John let this thought shiver through him as he walked down the stairs after getting dressed in his own room. To his surprise, a hot cup of coffee and a plate of toast with jam were waiting for him on the table. Sherlock was there as well, still examining the beetle he'd found at the warehouse. It looked like he was having no better luck than before.

Sitting down, John tucked into his small breakfast, surprised to find that Sherlock had made the coffee exactly how John liked it. He ate slowly, watching as Sherlock turned the beetle over to examine the belly. His white-gloved hands were sterile looking and professional. Sherlock set the beetle down and resumed looking through the book sitting next to his elbow. John tried to peer over to see, but was surprised to find that he couldn't read it.

"It's in French," Sherlock's deep voice said.

John looked up at him. "I didn't ask."

Sherlock glanced up at him for a second before going back to the book. "Yes you did. You just didn't ask verbally." He flipped the page again.

"Fantastic," John breathed. Sherlock pretended not to hear, but his expression lightened subtly. John waited for a few more page turns before he worked up the courage to speak again. "Sherlock," he started. "I just… I want to apologize for last night." He paused to gauge the detective's reaction, but couldn't derive anything from the neutral expression fixed there. So he continued. "I do want to be with you. I think last night proved that, but I…" He paused again, unsure of how to continue.

Sherlock finally looked up from the book. "I understand, John. You don't want to put yourself in a position that you might later regret. Of which, I'm sure you will later in life. However, if that is indeed the case, I would have to insist we part ways. I don't believe it would be easy for either of us to live together with a partial bond. I'm sure my brother would assist you monetarily while you find another job and place to live." Sherlock went back to his book, flipping the page again.

John's jaw had dropped at some point during Sherlock's speech. "No… I…" He wasn't quite sure how Sherlock had gotten so far off base. "No you great prat! I don't want to leave you."

"Like I said, John. It would be difficult for us to remain living together with only a partial bond."

"That's not what I'm saying! Listen to me, please!" John pleaded. Sherlock turned a surprised expression toward him. The former military doctor took in a deep breath. "You were right," he stated. "As usual. Last night when you said that it was about commitment… you were right. There's just something about the thought of tying myself down so thoroughly that terrifies me." John's eyes were fixed on the crumbs on his plate as he spoke. "I imagine there's some kind of psycho-babble term for it, but it's just how I am. I want to be with you. I really do, but I just…" John let himself trail off.

A moment later, John felt a strong hand raising his chin, forcing his eyes to meet with ice blue orbs. Sherlock scrutinized him for a moment before speaking. "You were hurt. Someone hurt you a long time ago. You trusted them, and they broke that trust."

John wanted to lower his head again, but Sherlock wouldn't let him. "Sherlock," he whispered.

"John, I want you to know that I would never abuse whatever trust you decide to give me." He let his hand drop from John's jaw, but John didn't look down now. He felt himself leaning towards Sherlock, but just as he was about to reach up to bring Sherlock down to his level, a shrill ring filled the air.

John jumped back and Sherlock looked somewhat disappointed, but reached across the table to grab at his mobile as it rang again. "Lestrade," he said tersely. John listened intently, but couldn't make out Lestrade's end of the conversation. Whatever he said, it was short and to the point because Sherlock hung up less than a minute later after promising that he and John would be there shortly.

"What's going on?" John asked as he grabbed his coat.

"They've found the murderer. Got him down at the station," Sherlock replied pulling his own coat on over his scarf.

It took about thirty minutes to get to Scotland Yard, but once there, Sherlock wasted no time in marching straight to the interrogation rooms. Inspector Lestrade was already inside talking to the man. John looked through the two-way glass to inspect the murderer a little more. He looked like an average man, medium build and height, graying hair, glasses. John noticed that he did appear to be left handed, and he could tell the yarders must have picked him up at his practice, because he was still wearing scrubs under his jacket.

Sherlock rapped on the glass to get Lestrade's attention. The DI paused in the middle of his sentence, and excused himself. "Sherlock, John," he greeted them as he stepped outside. "I suppose you want a moment with him?" Sherlock nodded. "He's everything you said he'd be Sherlock. Even found out he was in Afghanistan working on patching up kids who'd been wounded, trying to make 'em look normal again."

Sherlock nodded again, "I'll take it from here," he said.

Lestrade ushered him into the room, walking in himself behind John and going to stand in the corner, arms crossed. John sat in the seat Lestrade had vacated, and Sherlock paced the room slowly, never taking his eyes from the man on the other side of the table. "What's your name?" Sherlock started.

"Max Ketter."

"Max," Sherlock stopped pacing behind John's chair. "What is it about formerly wounded veterans that you hate so much?" He didn't wait for Max to answer. "It can't be that someone you loved died, that's not it. No, it's more personal. You hate them for something that offends you."

"That's insane, why would I hate soldiers for protecting our rights and freedoms?" Max interrupted.

"A good question," Sherlock rested his chin on his fist as he studied Max Ketter. Silence filled the room and eventually Max dropped Sherlock's gaze and opted to look down at the table instead.

John frowned at the man. Lestrade had said he fit all of the criteria that Sherlock had listed, so this had to be their man, didn't it? Suddenly a notion overtook John and he smiled. "Max," he addressed the man, who looked back up. "Max I'm John, Captain John Watson formerly of the fifth Northumberland Fusiliers actually." At this, Max's eyes widened, then narrowed as they swept over John's face. "I served as a doctor and a soldier. Just like you."

Max was still silent, but John knew he had his attention. "It's difficult, isn't it? Fixing up those kids only to send them back out to get shot up again? Kind of makes you sick to your stomach, right?"

"They were careless," Max said quietly.

John paused for a moment, looking back at Sherlock, who nodded encouragingly. "How so?" John asked.

"They didn't care if they came to us broken, because they knew we would fix them regardless. They had no self-preservation. Why should they, they who don't care about their bodies, live, while others die?"

Max's tone had turned angry. He was still looking at John though, ignoring everyone else in the room. "But they're human beings too, Max. They have a right to live…"

"NO! They forfeit their right! They don't take the trouble to even care about if they get shot, then they don't deserve the life they've been given."

"No one wants to get shot, Max. Trust me, I know."

Max's eyes hardened and he sat back. "You're one of them." He accused.

John's eyes hardened at this and he leaned forward. His tone was strict and held traces of his years as Captain Watson. "I was shot taking care of a patient. We were traveling through what was supposed to be a safe area when our Lieutenant went down. We couldn't save him. We took what shelter we could, but more were still being hit. A man next to me…" John paused for a second. "Kid… he was only a kid. Corporal Timothy Daniels. He was shot in the thigh. I tried to stop the bleeding, but the bullet knicked his femoral artery." John paused a bit longer here. "He bled out in under a minute."

Sherlock placed a gloved hand on John's shoulder, squeezing tightly. John accepted the wordless sympathy and continued on. "I was shot trying to save his life."

"It was futile though," Max protested. "Why waste your time on someone who is doomed to die? You were asking to get shot by doing so."

John stood abruptly, rage coursing through his eyes and his face turning red. His fists were clenched, ready to strike out. "John!" Sherlock grabbed hold of his flatmate, wrapping both arms around the struggling man.

"Let go, Sherlock," John's voice was deadly calm. Sherlock didn't let up his tight embrace at all though, and John struggled even harder to get loose. "How can you call yourself a doctor?!" John shouted at Max as Sherlock and Lestrade dragged him from the room.

"By taking care of patients who are alive! Not the walking dead!" Max retorted before Lestrade slammed the door to the interrogation room.

"Damnit, John! Don't make me call back-up!" Lestrade growled as he and Sherlock struggled to contain the raging doctor.

John ceased his struggles as he realized the commotion he was making, and suddenly went boneless. The DI and the detective continued to support him as they walked to Lestrade's office. Once there, they dumped John in a chair. The doctor stayed where he landed, head slumped against his chest. The only indicator that he was still awake was that his eyes were still open and blinking. "John?" Sherlock tried to reach him.

"You wanna tell me what the hell that was about, John?" Lestrade took the less delicate tact. "You and I both know he was trying to provoke you, and we both know that if you had hit him, that would effect his court outcome. So please tell me why you almost let a murderer walk free!" Lestrade folded his arms over his chest and leaned back against his desk.

Sherlock remained by John's side, one hand resting on the blond's shoulder. He wanted to wrap John up and take him home, but Lestrade probably wouldn't allow that just now, and Sherlock wouldn't be able to get John out the door without his help. Instead, he squeezed John's shoulder again, willing him support and strength.

After a minute, John raised his head to look at Lestrade. Sherlock could see that his eyes were slightly more moist than usual, but didn't react. "I've never told anyone that," he said quietly. "Not the whole thing at least, not even my therapist."

Lestrade's expression softened a bit, but he didn't say anything. "I'm sorry," John apologized. "I shouldn't have let my temper get the best of me."

"Forget about it," Lestrade finally said. "I probably would've done the same." Apologies offered and accepted, Lestrade turned to Sherlock who was still studying John. "I didn't just call you here because of Mr. Ketter. There's something you should see." Lestrade turned to grab a file from his desk. "This is a list of the veterans who were in danger of being victims." He handed the file to Sherlock, who took it quietly and began perusing over it. Lestrade stayed quiet until he saw that Sherlock had reached the end of the list and his eyes widened a bit. "He's caught now, Sherlock. Nothing more will happen."

Sherlock nodded, but his eyes were still glued to the paper before him that held a multitude of names, but only one that mattered. _John H. Watson_. "Funnily enough, the representative from the VA who gave us the list let slip that someone else had requested the same list not too long ago. Mr. Ketter probably had the same idea we did."

Sherlock's fist tightened around the paper, crinkling it slightly. "I need to talk to him again."

Lestrade's brow furrowed and he straightened slightly. "I don't think that's a good idea, Sherlock."

Sherlock didn't listen though and headed out the door and back down to the interrogation rooms. Lestrade cursed and followed. John stayed where he was. By the time Lestrade caught up with Sherlock, the detective was already in the interrogation room, looming over Max Ketter threateningly. "Sherlock!" he yelled as he opened the door.

Sherlock ignored him and asked a question of Max instead. "I asked you who is commanding your operations? You're far too simple minded to have done all this by yourself. Probably wouldn't have even started if it weren't for the right nudge."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Max defied, leaning back, away from Sherlock who was leaning over the table between them.

"Oh yes you do. You were working for someone. I know you were."

"No, I was working alone."

Sherlock grabbed at the man's wrist that was handcuffed to the table and squeezed. Max let out a strangled yell. "Stop! Please!" he pleaded.

"Tell me who you were working for!"

"Sherlock! Stop it!" Lestrade moved forward to help the man, but a glare from Sherlock stopped him in his tracks. Lestrade had never seen such a dangerous look in the detective's eyes before and it stopped him cold.

"Who were you working for!" Sherlock's grip tightened and Lestrade swore he heard bones popping.

Max let out a scream. "Moriarty!" he finally said.

Sherlock let go immediately, and Max curled forward over his broken wrist. "He's all yours, Lestrade," Sherlock said calmly as he swept past the DI.

Lestrade watched him go, still in shock at what the man had done. After a minute, his senses came back and he shouted for some help.

Sherlock made it back to Lestrade's office in record time and was pulling John up gently. "Come on, John. We're going home now."

John complied without protest, letting Sherlock direct him as need be. They made it back to 221b in short time and John was sitting on the couch with his jacket off before he even noticed. "John?" Sherlock knelt before him, a worried look on his face.

"I'm fine, Sherlock," John insisted.

"You don't look fine."

John gave Sherlock a weary smile. "Well I'll be fine. Could I get some tea maybe?"

Sherlock nodded and rushed off to the kitchen to start the water heating. Five minutes later, he presented a cup of tea and a chocolate biscuit to John. "Thanks," John accepted the proffered food and drink. He ate and drank in silence, Sherlock sitting beside him. The warmth that came off of the detective's body was soothing, and John found himself leaning in against him. He thought he could probably spend the rest of the afternoon there easily. However there were things that needed to be done. "So the case is solved?" he asked of Sherlock.

"Supposedly." John sat up to look at his flatmate. Sherlock sighed and continued. "I suspect that Mr. Ketter was just a pawn. There's someone else out there calling the shots and he's the one we need to find."

"Do we have any leads?"

"Moriarty," Sherlock all but whispered.

"Who's Moriarty?"

"No idea. Plan to fix that soon though."

With that, the detective leapt from the couch and went back into the kitchen. "Still with the beetle?" John asked turning to see Sherlock.

"The beetle is the key, I'm sure of it, John."

"Alright then. I think I'm going to take a walk."

Sherlock's head popped up from the microscope. "By yourself?"

"Of course by myself," John replied reaching for his coat. "You have things to do, and I just want a bit of fresh air. Besides, I'd only be in your way."

Sherlock's lips thinned and he looked like he wanted to say something, but was holding back. John sighed as he shrugged his coat on. "What?"

"I'd just prefer if you didn't go out by yourself."

"Why not? I'm a grown man; I can take care of myself, Sherlock."

"John," the detective was quiet, as though he didn't really want to tell his flatmate whatever he was thinking. "You were on the list."

"What?"

"Your name was on the list."

John was quiet for a moment before asking, "The possible victim list? The murderer was caught, Sherlock."

"But the manipulator is still out there, John. The mind behind the murders."

"It's over with, Sherlock. The person, Moriarty, whoever it is, wasn't the one actually performing the murders. I'll be fine."

John moved to walk out the door when Sherlock's mobile ran. He paused as he heard Sherlock pick it up and address Lestrade. A minute later, he hung up. "Well?" John asked glancing back at Sherlock.

"Another body was found in the same warehouse district. It's fresh." John stared at Sherlock for a moment, unwilling to believe what he'd just heard. "Lestrade also wants you to come down to indentify the body."

"Why me?"

"Because according to his military ID, he's formerly of the fifth Northumberland Fusiliers."

At this, John's face paled. Sherlock watched as his flatmate wrenched open the door and marched down the stairs. It didn't take him long to grab his own coat and follow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I almost didn't publish this today. Wasn't sure if it was ready. Still not sure it's ready, but I figure it's Friday! So I'll keep to my schedule and let you guys have a chapter. I'll just have to fix any mistakes I made later. Thank you all for the support you keep giving. I really do appreciate any reviews you guys give me.


	8. Grief Counseling

John's fists were clenched tightly, his nails biting into his palms. His lips formed a thin line, and his back was ramrod straight. Before him lay the pale corpse of First Lieutenant William Murray. Well, he'd been a First Lieutenant when John had known him. He'd been promoted to a Captain before his honorable discharge. However the man looked practically the same as when John has last seen him. Still had the flaming red hair, freckles everywhere, long crooked nose (from when he'd broken it in a fistfight, of which John had helped him win. They'd both been put on suspension for three days, but it was well worth it), and John knew that if he were to open the man's eyes they would still be a warm brown.

John had known this man. He'd fought beside him, played rugby with him, swapped tales over a pint, comforted him when he'd received a 'Dear John' letter from his girl back home, and been comforted when John had been shot and was going to be sent home. Overall, William Murray was probably one of the closest friends John had had in the RAMC. And that was just it… had… Bill was dead now. Everything about the man was now past tense. He clenched his fist tighter, the pain of his nails digging into his palm keeping him grounded, because there was no way he was going to allow himself to breakdown with Molly, Lestrade, Sherlock, and a few others from NSY there.

A hand clasped John's shoulder, and he flinched away from it. His head whipped around to see a worried Sherlock gazing back at him. John just shook his head, and went back to staring at the corpse before him. "Yes," he finally spoke, answering Lestrade's question. "This is William Murray."

"Thanks, John," Lestrade said quietly, covering Bill's face back up with the white sheet. "Appreciate you coming down. There were no other family listed in the database."

"No, there wouldn't be. Bill's parents died before he joined the RAMC. I think that was a big part of the reason he joined up in the first place." John took in a deep breath, trying to calm his thundering pulse. "And he never married or had kids. It was just him. Poor bloke." John let out a soft laugh then. "Used to joke about that actually. Always said that I was his brother, even though we looked nothing alike. Actually convinced a few people that it was true a time or two."

"I didn't even know he'd been discharged," John said quietly.

"Happened just a week ago according to his records," Lestrade filled in, looking down at a file in his hand. "He was discharged honorably with the rest of his unit."

John nodded, his gaze shifting from the white sheet to Lestrade. "Is that all you needed from us?"

Lestrade glanced back and forth from Sherlock to John. "Well, that and to see if Sherlock could find any more clues, but you can go, John. I wouldn't blame you."

John frowned. He didn't want or need Lestrade's sympathy. However he didn't say anything as he turned to face Sherlock. The detective's gaze ran up and down John for a moment before fixing on a spot just behind him. John turned, curious, but all that was behind him, was Bill's body, covered by a white sheet, his red hair sticking out the very top. Sherlock moved forward and reached toward Bill's hair. John reached out to stop him (didn't the man have ANY decency?), but stopped when he saw what Sherlock was reaching for. There was a single short strand of black hair.

The detective plucked it from amongst the ginger strands and studied it in the light. "Fur," he said succinctly. He quickly put it in a small baggy he pulled out of his coat pocket, then hid it before Lestrade turned back to them.

"Alright, you two can go if you have nothing to give me, Sherlock," the DI said, rubbing his hand along the back of his neck. John could see dark bags under the man's eyes and frowned. Lestrade was sometimes a bit too much like Sherlock in his dedication to the case. "You'll call if you think of anything?"

"Of course," Sherlock waived the man off and turned to leave, one gloved hand coming to John's elbow to steer him along.

The taller man led his flatmate out of the morgue, and onto the street where he hailed a taxi and instructed it to go to Baker Street. John was quiet the entire way; his only thoughts were on how his friend was dead. It was obvious, that Sherlock had found an important clue, but John was incapable of appreciating it just then. He was jarred out of his thoughts by Sherlock's hand on his arm, letting him know they'd arrived back at 221b.

John exited the cab, and paid the man before following Sherlock into the flat. It was while he was hanging up his coat that everything seemed to crush down on him. The wall that he'd thrown up to prevent a breakdown at the morgue came crashing back down, and John locked his knees to keep himself upright. His hand gripped the coat rack tightly, and his chest heaved with heavy quick breaths. He'd had panic attacks before, his PTSD had made sure of that, but this was different. There was a kind of despairing weight that settled around John that he didn't get when he had a panic attack.

A warm hand settled on his shoulder then, and a deep voice called his name. He shuddered as the calming sound washed over him, but his breaths didn't slow. "John," the baritone intoned again accompanied by a pull toward the couch.

John didn't think he could move; his knees were locked, and he was afraid that they would buckle if he tried. However the pulling was insistent, and with the support of a strong arm around his back John found himself moving forward. His breathing started to slow a bit as he was settled on the couch. The warm arm didn't move from around his shoulders, and he found himself grateful that he could lean into it and the body it was attached to.

"John?" Sherlock's deep voice asked.

It took a moment, but John eventually remembered how to speak. "I'm fine now, Sherlock," he replied, his voice quiet, but steady.

"No, you're not, but you will be," Sherlock parroted John's own words back at him, making John smile a bit. "Let me get you some tea."

The detective rose and fiddled with the teakettle. John could hear the sink running and figured that Sherlock was actually washing a mug for him. He'd have to remember to mark it on the calendar. A few minutes later, Sherlock handed John a mug filled with Earl Grey and a splash of milk. He took a sip, the soothing hot liquid running down his throat. "Thanks," he said. "And sorry… about all of that," he waved a hand toward the coat rack.

"It's understandable, John. From what I've deduced, you and William were like brothers. Losing a family member is always difficult."

Sherlock stood in front of John awkwardly for a moment before John realized what was happening. He let out a small chuckle. "Thank you for the tea, Sherlock. And yes, you can go study that hair you found. I'll be fine."

Sherlock hesitated for only a moment, checking John over carefully, before running towards his coat to retrieve the hair, then to the microscope at the table. John took another sip of the relaxing tea before reaching for his laptop on the coffee table. He hadn't updated his blog in a long time, and it was probably time that he did so. The last case with the bank needed to be written up. With that, he let himself go into blogger mode. The previous case filled his mind, and he numbly pecked away at the keyboard. He knew that it was going to take a long time to feel normal again after seeing Bill Murray dead, but he hoped that with the hair lead, Sherlock would be able to catch the killer and that would help.

: : :

Sherlock sat down at the table and pulled on a pair of gloves before taking the hair out of the evidence bag. He glanced over at John once more before starting his study. The doctor was worrying him. John had gone through a lot in the last year, Sherlock being one of them, and the detective suspected that it was rather weighing down on him now. The problem was that he had no idea how to alleviate it. Being that he was one of the issues, Sherlock wasn't sure that he was the right person for the job. But if he couldn't do it, then who could? It was a difficult quandary to be sure.

The detective placed the hair under the microscope, his eyes going to the viewer. It only took a moment of study to see that it was a piece of fur, not a hair from a human. However that left the question of what kind of animal, and why was it in Bill Murray's hair? Sherlock continued to study the hair, his eyes squinting at every detail. No kerf marks, so the fur was shed naturally. Not smooth like in domestic pets, so this was a wild animal. Length and width suggested it was from the outer coat of a larger animal, meant to keep it warm in the winter. He would need to do chemical testing to figure out what species it belonged to.

With that, Sherlock took the hair out from under the microscope and he proceeded to gather the necessary chemicals he would need to determine species. He let his mind drift back to his problem with John. He knew John had a sister, but she wouldn't be the right one to help him either due to their confrontational relationship. There were John's old army buddies. There were even a few in London. It wouldn't necessarily be a bad idea. He would have Mycroft keep a close eye on CCTV footage, for obvious reasons, but over all, it sounded like a good idea. All of John's army buddies would be morning over William Murray's death. Now would be an opportune time to reach out to them.

He slipped his mobile out of his pocket then and fired off a text to a member of his homeless network. He received an answer less than ten minutes later confirming that a former fifth Northumberland Fusilier did indeed live in London at this time. He fired off another text and waited. He didn't expect a response for several hours yet, which would give him time to discover the species of the fur sample.

: : :

John was just about to drift off when he heard his mobile buzz on the table. Groggily, he leaned forward and unlocked the screen to see he had a text message from an unknown number.

_John? Is this John Watson?_

John stared at the message for a moment before replying. _Yes, this is John Watson. Who is this?_

His phone pinged a reply quickly. _3 Continents John Watson! It's Jim Kincaid!_

John felt his face flush at the nickname he'd accrued in the RAMC. Jim had actually been the one to give it to him after a drunken night telling stories. _Jim, not that I'm not glad 2 hear from u, but how did u get my #?_

_Met a mate of urs. He gave it to me._

John tried to think of who Jim would've met that could've given out his number. Before John could hazard a guess though, Jim texted again. _Hey, a bunch of us Fusiliers r getting 2gether at the old pub 2night. U up 4 it?_

John smiled. It would be good to see the old gang back together. He glanced back a Sherlock who was dripping something from an eyedropper onto a Petri dish. Normally he wouldn't ask permission to go out, but with the killer still out, John wanted Sherlock's opinion. "Sherlock," he called over to the man. "What do you think about my going out with a few of the lads tonight?"

Sherlock barely glanced up from his work as he replied. "It hardly matters to me what you do in your free time, John. Though I would feel better if you took the Browning."

John nodded and turned back to his mobile. _I'll be there._

_Great! 7 o'clock!_

John smiled as he put his phone back on the coffee table. It was already just past two in the afternoon. He had some time to relax still and finish his blog.

: : :

John tucked his Browning pistol snuggly into the back of his jeans before shrugging into his jacket. Sherlock was standing beside him. He'd finished his testing that afternoon on the hair only to discover it belonged to a black panther. Neither of them knew what to make of that except for the coincidence that it was the same animal Sherlock could shape shift to. He was back to work on the beetle now, except to waive John off. John nodded once, but Sherlock grabbed hold of his arm before he could leave. John looked up to see the detective looking worriedly at him. "Be careful," he said.

John nodded once. Sherlock leaned forward and pressed a chaste kiss to his flatmate's lips. John didn't have a chance to respond before Sherlock was pulling back. With much self control to not pull Sherlock back in, John turned and left. He'd ordered a cab so that he wouldn't have to wait for one, and slipped in to the back seat before telling the cabbie the address of the bar.

It took perhaps twenty minutes to get there, and John soon found he was glad that he'd gone. When he walked in the bar, Jim was already there and greeted him. "John!" he grinned, freckled face beaming. "Good to see ya again, mate!" He gave John a hug and moved back so the doctor could see who else was there.

There were another three former Fusiliers seated at a high top table. George Higgens, Benny Carter, and Arthur Doyle. All five men had served together, and John hadn't seen any of them since his discharge. A single pint turned into two and then three. The laughing became more boisterous, and the jokes became a bit more lewd. However it was towards the end of the night when the conversation turned from nostalgia to current times. "So John, tell us what your up to now?" Arthur said taking a sip from his pint.

"Oh you don't want to hear about me," John shied away.

"Oh come on! We've all shared what we've been up to!" Benny exclaimed, wobbling on his seat.

John grinned as the man nearly fell over. "It's really not that much."

"More than us! What with you being here longer and all," George pressed.

"Fine, fine!" John laughed. He debated for a second how much to tell his mates, and settled on as close to the truth as he could. It would make things simpler. "Well, I'm living with a bloke in a flat over on Baker Street. Actually working with him too."

"A bloke, eh?" Benny grinned.

"Sod off," John grinned back. "Yes a bloke. We've been together for going on eight months now."

"Hang on, John. You mean like, together, together?" Jim asked.

John nodded. He knew these men, and knew they could be open minded about such things. "Wow," Jim smiled. "Finally figured it out, eh Captain?"

John jerked up to look at him. "Figured what out?"

"That you prefer the blokes to the ladies?"

"You knew?" John's eyes widened.

"Course we knew, mate! Just can't believe you didn't know till now!" Benny laughed.

John took a long draught of his pint to give himself some time. They had all known and yet he hadn't… how remarkable. "Right, well you said you was working with him. What do you do?" George asked still grinning at John's expense.

"Detective work. He's a consultant for Scotland Yard."

"Really? That's fantastic!" Benny exclaimed, nearly falling off his seat again.

"Hey, you ain't talking 'bout Sherlock Holmes are you?" Arthur asked.

John nodded, taking another drink. "That's the one."

"Well put me in a skirt and call me princess! I been reading those blogs of yours online mate!" Arthur exclaimed.

"Hang on now, what's this?" George asked.

"He's that John Watson what's been posting all them detective stories online. I sent you a link a while back."

"That's our John Watson? Blimey!" George slammed down the last of his pint.

"Always knew you'd do great things, John!" Benny laughed. "Just didn't think it would be something like this!"

John smiled. "Ta." He raised his glass then slugged down another large gulp, finishing it off. Glancing at his watch, John set down the tall pint glass. "'Bout time I head back actually."

"Oooh, look at Johnny 'ere, all domestic like," Benny laughed and actually did fall off his chair this time which caused the rest of them to burst out laughing.

"Karma, Benny, karma!" John chuckled. "Right," he stood and pulled his jacket back on. "We need to do this again."

"Definitely," Jim grinned. "And soon!"

John chuckled. "You have my number. Laterz!"

John walked out of the bar in an exceptionally good mood. He was rather glad he came tonight and was looking forward to meeting up again. Weaving slightly, he made his way down the street to look for a cab. It was going on midnight now and while London never slept, the streets were thinner now. The street the bar was on wasn't particularly busy, so there were no cabs about.

Weaving along the sidewalk, John got the peculiar feeling of being watched. He stopped and glanced around, but saw nothing. However the tingling feeling didn't let up. The former army doctor walked a bit faster. A busier road was just three blocks away, but at the moment, it seemed a mile. Looking over his shoulder again, John tried to pick up the pace, but that was a bit difficult when your legs weren't exactly cooperating.

Across the street was a small park with a children's playground. As John's eyes slid over the bushes, a pair of golden eyes pinned him. He halted in the middle of the walk and stared. _It could be just a dog_ , he thought to himself. Except that dogs didn't usually hide in bushes and stare at people. John remembered then that the hair Sherlock had found had belonged to a black panther. The blond man's mouth went dry and he turned to run.

He didn't know if whatever it was, was following him, but he didn't want to stop to find out. Instead he forced his legs to cooperate and took off down the sidewalk. His heart was pumping and adrenaline laced his veins as he finally reached the busier street and jumped in the nearest cab, not bothering to check if it was on duty. The back door slammed shut and John looked back the way he'd come only to see nothing, just a dark street.

"You okay, mate?" the cabbie interrupted John's thoughts.

John whipped his head around to see a man wearing a flat cap and a concerned look. "Yeah, just fine," he replied, leaning back into the seat and trying to control his breathing.

The cabbie didn't look like he believed him for a single moment, but didn't comment. "Right, where to?"

"221 Baker Street."

With that, the cabbie signaled and pulled into traffic. John turned back for one last look down the street and could have sworn he saw something slinking along in the shadows, but then it was gone and the cab turned the corner. There had been something back there; John was sure of it. He just couldn't be exactly sure of what.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Righto! Once again, sorry about missing last week! I was busy getting my ass kicked by a cold. On the plus side, I got this chapter and a goodly part of next chapter done! BIG plus side, next chapter will have some fun adult type touching!
> 
> lol... Right, well I'll leave it there!


	9. Indian Imports

When John had finally gotten home the previous night and told Sherlock of what had happened, it had started something John had never would have thought. During the telling of John's story, Sherlock had grown steadily more tense, his spine straightening, his fists clenching, his jaw tensing. And when he reached the end, Sherlock marched over to John who was sitting on the couch and kissed him roughly, his hands roaming over John's torso and under his shirt. John had been stunned by the reaction, but had soon started participating in the kiss. It was more teeth and biting than anything else, but John found he really didn't care. That was until Sherlock pulled away and John made a small noise of loss. "Mine," the brunet growled.

That had been when Sherlock had shape shifted into a panther and pinned John to the couch. He'd lain on John all night long, scent marking him. Eventually, John had fallen asleep. However now it was morning, and John was still pinned under a possessive panther. "Sherlock," John tried to reason with the creature. "I'm just fine, alright? I promise I won't leave the flat if you just let me up."

Sherlock didn't move a muscle, except to flex his claws. John rolled his eyes and huffed out a breath. "Look, I have to piss, alright?" he finally grumbled.

The panther eyed him for a moment before rising from his perch. "Thank you," John said as he rose and headed for the bathroom. Sherlock followed him the entire way, and sat outside the door while John used the facilities.

"Really?" John remarked when he opened the door after taking a shower and shaving. "I wasn't going to get kidnapped from the loo, Sherlock," the blond admonished as he stepped over the panther lying in front of the door.

He proceeded to go up stairs to get a change of clothes, the panther followed, this time he scooted inside the door before John could close it. "Come off it, Sherlock! Nothing is going to happen to me while I'm in the flat!"

The panther didn't give any sign of acknowledgement and continued to sit stoically beside the door. John let out a huff and went about getting dressed. He felt a bit self-conscious about getting dressed in front of the shapeshifter, but pushed it back. Once he'd finished, he went down to the kitchen and made himself some breakfast, a couple of eggs, some toast, and a rasher of bacon (he'd gone shopping just the other day). He even offered some to Sherlock, but the panther refused. John thought for a moment before offering him a slice of raw bacon. Sherlock gave him a look that even though he was a panther, John could read as 'Really, John?'. He blushed and put the slice in the frying pan with the others.

The day continued to be quiet, and Sherlock remained in his panther form, never leaving John's side. Eventually, John gave up trying to convince Sherlock that nothing was going to happen, and actually started to enjoy the benefits of having a large furry animal around. Benefits such as having a foot warmer while he typed at his blog. It was sometime in the early afternoon when Mrs. Hudson's familiar voice was heard downstairs. "You hoo! Boys! Are you up there?"

Another more masculine voice was heard then, but John wasn't sure what he said. A moment later, Mycroft Holmes stood in the doorway of 221b. He took in the scene of John sitting on the sofa, his laptop perched on his thighs, and Sherlock, still in panther form, laying on John's feet. A single raised eyebrow was all they received. "John," he said, coming further into the flat.

Sherlock growled a bit and tensed. "Really brother, I have no interest in your mate."

"Oh, we're not…"

"You may as well be," Mycroft interrupted as he sat down in Sherlock's chair. "He's certainly acting the part. I suspect that living together has strengthened the bond enough that it is nearly the same as a complete one, without the added benefits of course."

"Benefits?" John asked closing his laptop.

At this, Mycroft rolled his eyes. "You have told him nothing in these past months, Sherlock?"

The panther at John's feet growled, but didn't get up. Mycroft let out a put-upon sigh and brushed off some imaginary dust from his sleeve. "The benefits of a complete bond include picking up some of the abilities of the your mate. For example, heightened hearing, or smell, or eyesight. Any, all, or none of these could happen. It's all very much up to the individual relationship. Despite studies done on the subject, it is still unclear what causes certain relationships to have these benefits and others none."

John nudged Sherlock with his foot. "You could've told me," he accused.

"Would it have sped up your desire to complete the bond?" Mycroft asked.

John thought about it for a second. "Probably not," he admitted.

"And that is most likely why my brother did not tell you."

John raised an eyebrow. At that moment, Mrs. Hudson bustled into the flat, a tea tray balanced in her hands. "Here we go then," she said. "Just this once though. I'm not your housekeeper. Just made those biscuits though and thought you might like some."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," John smiled at the motherly woman.

"Oh Sherlock!" she exclaimed as she caught sight of the panther. "Having a bit of a strop is he?"

John chuckled. "You could say that."

"Well you just let me know if there's anything I can do to help out," she said giving Sherlock one last look before returning to 221a.

John helped himself to a biscuit and a cup of tea then. _Might as well_ , he thought. "So why are you here, Mycroft?" he finally asked.

"I heard about your incident last night and came to confirm a few things with Sherlock. However it appears that he's become incapable of speech at the moment, so I will ask you." John nodded as he took a bite of the lemon biscuit and nearly moaned. He could see why Mrs. Hudson's baked goods were sometimes the only thing Sherlock would consent to eat while on a case. "I believe Sherlock identified the hair found on Captain William Murray as that of a black leopard?" The elder Holmes reached forward to pour himself a cup of tea and if he gave the biscuits a regretful look, John missed it.

"Panther," John corrected.

"A black panther and a black leopard are the same thing, John. In fact, if you look carefully at Sherlock's coat you can see the outline of spots," he indicated the cat at John's feet.

The doctor bent forward and squinted. Sure enough, he could see the faint outline of spots, black on black. "Panther is a generic term used to describe leopards, cougars, and jaguars. Our particular species is a black leopard," Mycroft explained.

John wondered why it was that he learned all pertinent information about shapeshifters from Mycroft. He stroked a hand down Sherlock's back in fascination. "Amazing," he whispered.

"Yes, quite," Mycroft sounded amused. "Back to the topic at hand." He leaned forward slightly as he gave John a quick perusal. "What exactly did you see last night, John?"

"What? No CCTV down that street?" John joked.

"No," Mycroft's face was completely serious.

John's smile faded and he shifted uncomfortably. Down at his feet, Sherlock grumbled and moved so that he was lying on the sofa, his head in John's lap. The laptop was shoved aside. John gave Sherlock a tolerant look. Mycroft gave them both a slightly nauseated look. John stroked Sherlock's head, running his fingers through the course fur. "I left the bar around midnight," John started continuing to stroke Sherlock. "I was… a bit tipsy to put it succinctly. I didn't really notice anything until about a block away when I felt like someone was watching me, but I didn't see anyone when I looked around. The feeling continued and when I was passing the park, I saw a pair of golden eyes looking out from the bushes. I ran. I don't even know if I was chased, but I ran anyway."

"Yes, I saw you jump in the cab," Mycroft seemed to be studying John. "Unfortunately, the street the bar is on doesn't have any cameras. Something I'll be rectifying soon." He seemed to add the last as an afterthought. "I believe that's all then," he stood adjusting his waistcoat as he did so.

"Leaving already?" John wasn't actually sorry to see Mycroft go, but he felt he should offer the gesture, even if the elder Holmes would see through it.

"Indeed," he buttoned his overcoat. "Oh and Sherlock, I'd recommend getting over your possessive nature soon. The case won't solve it's self."

Sherlock growled and flexed his claws. John jumped a bit as the claws came close to breaking through his trousers. "Sherlock…" he grumbled. He attempted to get up to see Mycroft out, but Sherlock growled again and refused to move.

"Please, don't get up, Doctor Watson. I can see myself out," Mycroft smirked. With that, he retrieved his umbrella from near the coat rack and walked out.

John waited till he heard the door close downstairs before pushing at Sherlock. The leopard grumbled and moved even further onto John's lap. "Come off it, Sherlock!"

However John halted the rest of his admonishment as Sherlock shifted right there on John's lap. Soon he had a lap full of brooding brunet and suddenly the tension in the room skyrocketed. Sherlock turned so he was straddling John. "The place reeks of him now," Sherlock commented, wrinkling his nose.

"Nice to see you again," John grumbled.

"It is, isn't it?" Sherlock smirked. "Because I can't really do this," he kissed John chastely. "When I'm a panther, can I?"

"No, you can't," John replied then promptly pulled Sherlock back down for a proper kiss. One hand held Sherlock's head in place while the other roamed his back. It was about then that John realized Sherlock was nude. "Um, Sherlock?" he muttered as he pulled away.

The detective moaned slightly at the loss of John's warm lips against his own. "It's quite rude to interrupt a good snog with pointless observations, John," Sherlock grumbled.

"You're naked, Sherlock."

"Yes, I had noticed."

"And you don't think some pants would be good?"

"Do you think pants would be good?" John flushed a brilliant red at that. Sherlock smirked and scooted closer so they were flush against each other. "John? I think you're wearing entirely too much clothing." His long dexterous fingers brushed up John's chest, dragging against the doctor's nipples through his shirt.

"Sherlock," John whimpered.

"You want me to help you with that?" Sherlock tugged at John's sweater, then began attacking the buttons on his button-up.

The shirt was soon tugged off and thrown across the room. Sherlock then began attacking John's belt. The blond groaned as fingers brushed against his erection. Every inch of him was begging for more, but a small logical side of him was still there and persistent. "Wait, Sherlock," John managed to groan. "I'm not ready to complete the bond yet."

"I know, John," Sherlock whispered, his voice a dark sensuous sensation. "However the bond is only completed with penetrative intercourse." He licked a stripe up the side of John's neck and nibbled at his earlobe.

John leaned his head away to give Sherlock more access. The detective continued to explore the exposed skin with both teeth and tongue. Once he'd mapped out the entirety of the left side of John's neck, he chose a spot halfway up and bit down, sucking at the flesh hard. John cried out and thrust his hips up at Sherlock. The younger man pulled back, a pleased look on his face as he examined the already purpling mark. John's hands traveled down to undo his own belt and unzip his fly. Sherlock pushed his hands away then and cupped the hard warm flesh still trapped behind John's pants. A low groan filled the air as the shapeshifter squeezed.

Suddenly, John's cock was being exposed to cold air, but warm fingers wrapped around it just as quickly, trapping his and Sherlock's lengths together. The older man thrust upwards causing them both to hiss in pleasure. The detective's fingers tightened and began to move up and down in a steady rhythm, using both of their pre-cum as a lubricant. "Oh god, Sherlock!" John cried out as his hips jerked and thrust. "Don't stop!"

Sherlock's reply was to bend forward and mash his lips against John's. His tongue thrust forward into the doctor's mouth, tangoing with his own. His hand continued to move, though now it was losing its rhythm and jerking erratically. He thrust against John, at the same time he bit at the doctor's lower lip causing John to moan low and needy. Their hips both thrust now, their entire bodies shook with exertion and the need to tip over edge. Sherlock squeezed again and John let out a choked yell as he spilled his seed all over Sherlock's hand and up both their chests. Sherlock followed shortly after and slumped against the doctor.

They lay against each other, catching their breath. John was completely boneless and closed his eyes for a moment. Sherlock was boneless as well, draped over John in a way that made John feel warm and secure. However the moment didn't last long as he felt the younger man stiffen and suddenly jump off of him. "I've got it John!" he cried as he raced toward the bookshelf.

He pulled out an old tomb that was written in a flowing script that John recognized as Hindi. He'd spent some time in India while in the army when training. "What is it, Sherlock?" he asked curious now.

"The beetle John!" Sherlock suddenly spun the book around after flipping through half of it, showing John a picture of the exact beetle they'd found at the warehouse with the first of the bodies. "It's a Khapra beetle native to India, eats dried plant and animal matter including dried blood, and is on the Department of Agriculture's list of 100 most invasive species! I knew I'd seen it somewhere!"

John grinned as he tucked himself back into his pants. "So what does that mean?"

"All ships coming in from India are subject to search and quarantine. With this information we can find the place where the surgeries took place and perhaps more clues about Moriarty!" Sherlock began to run towards the door, but John's firm hand reached out to stop him. "What, John?" he asked exasperatedly.

"Sherlock, you're still naked and we both need a bit of cleaning up."

The detective glanced down and let out a low huff, agreeing with his flatmate. He then pulled John to his feet and steered him into the bathroom. "What are you doing?" John asked, his voice a little above normal.

"We both need a shower, but this information needs to be shared as soon as possible. Therefore, we shower together," Sherlock explained as he turned on the taps to let the water warm, then reached in John's pocket to fish out his cell phone. "Hey!" the doctor protested, but Sherlock ignored him and quickly sent out a message to Lestrade before continuing to strip John and pull him into the shower. It was very difficult to not ravish John in the shower, but Sherlock managed to keep his hands to himself. However the heated looks between the two men all but ensured another round of what happened on the sofa would happen again soon.

It wasn't long before Sherlock and John were getting out of a cab in a warehouse district east of Canary Wharf. The Khapra beetle had led them to a particular warehouse where cargo was held quarantine. Lestrade and his team would be arriving shortly. However Sherlock refused to wait. Instead, he and John inched along through the maze of warehouses, John's browning held at the ready. "That one," Sherlock said quietly as he pointed to a warehouse ahead of them.

John nodded and they quietly approached the drab warehouse and slipped inside. There were boxes of cargo labeled in both Hindi and English piled to the ceiling in places and large plastic sheets hung from the ceiling to mark off different ship's cargo. The two men quietly navigated the warehouse, peeking into the different sections. It wasn't until about three quarters of the way through that the found what they were looking for. Behind another section of plastic sheeting, were three gurney tables with three bodies laying on them. IV carts stood next to them along with blood transfusion bags. John could tell instantly from the smell that at least two of the bodies were dead. However as he approached the third, he was startled to see glassy eyes peer back at him. "This one's still alive! Sherlock, we need an ambulence!"

Sherlock nodded and lifted his phone to his ear. John heard him muttering into the mobile, but his attention was riveted to the man laying on the gurney before him. He was trying to assess the damage. It appeared, judging by the stitching, that only a kidney and perhaps a piece of liver had been extracted. Which meant that this man could live. However the wound that had been created to take out organs was still open and needed to be closed. Without thinking, John reached for the nitrile gloves and pulled them on. "Hang on, I'm gonna fix you up," he tried to reassure the man.

John proceeded to thread a needle and bent to get to work stitching the open wound back up. A soft grunt accompanied his first stitch and John's face blanched. They'd been operating without any anesthesia or painkillers. John gritted his teeth and set back to work. This wound needed to be closed now. "John?" Sherlock's soft voice was behind him.

"Not now, Sherlock," John muttered.

"Lestrade just got here, I'm going out to lead them back here."

"I'll be here."

Sherlock placed a hand on John's back before departing. He heard the detective walk back through the warehouse and out the door. It was about then, that John saw something inside the man. It was a mesh type substance and he gently reached in to pull out. He looked curiously at it. The mesh bag held an organic substance inside. The mesh itself was like that of the type that surgeons used in transplants. Inside was what looked to be part of a liver. However a small light was blinking from inside the organ. He glanced around the makeshift operating theatre taking in the other materials there, and his eyes widened. This was a bomb! An organic bomb that could be planted inside someone and triggered to go off.

He set the bag gently down on the table and nervously went back to stitching the man back up. However when he was about to put in the last stitch, a strong arm wrapped around him from behind and a hand held a cloth against John's nose and mouth. The doctor struggled against the solid hold to no avail. "SHERLOCK!" the muffled yell could be heard through the rag. John's struggles grew less and less though as the drug took effect and soon everything went dark as he slumped back against whomever had drugged him.

: : :

Sherlock ran between the warehouses to get back to where Lestrade and his team were. The Detective Inspector stood waiting and signaled his team the moment he saw Sherlock. "This way!" Sherlock yelled as he turned around to lead them back. He hated leaving John alone, but the maze of warehouses would've prevented Lestrade's team from getting there anytime soon.

The detective dodged through the maze, leading the team back to the warehouse. He let out a sigh of relief as he spotted it and picked up the pace to get back inside. "John!" he called out as he jogged through the warehouse.

Silence and plastic curtains met him, and Sherlock picked up the pace to reach the area where the bodies were. "John?" Sherlock pulled back the curtain to find the three bodies exactly how he'd left them except for a small mesh bag on the table with a note attached to it. Slowly, Sherlock approached the table and reached for the bag and the note. Loose flowing script was written on expensive parchment with a ballpoint pen.

_Sherlock,_

_Lovely to see that you've finally discovered this place. Feel free to examine the object this note is attached to, to your heart's content. However just know that for every moment you spend studying, little Johnny's life will be draining away._

_Them's how it works, unfortunately._

_Ta ta!_

_Jim Moriarty_

Sherlock could feel his fists shaking and his breath coming in sharp irregular gasps. "Sherlock?" Lestrade's voice called out behind him. "Where's John?"

The detective turned to meet the DI, and offered him the note. Lestrade took it and read it to himself, his eyes widening. When Lestrade looked back up, it was to see Sherlock walking determinedly toward the exit. "Sherlock!" he called out, but the man didn't stop. Lestrade ran to catch up with him, but as soon as he reached the door, he lost him. He looked around frantically, but only saw a black wool coat lying on the ground covering a few other tattered pieces of clothing. Lestrade's eyes widened as he crouched to pick the items up. "Son of a…" he muttered. "Mycroft's not going to like this." He proceeded to pull out his mobile and scroll through his contacts until he found the one he was looking for. "My?" he used the nickname he'd adopted for the elder Holmes. "He's gone," he said simply, knowing the elder Holmes would know what he meant.

A sigh was heard at the other end. "Very well, thank you Gregory. This will mean a long night I imagine."

"Same here, My, same here."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's that you say? There's Mystrade in this story too? Yes! Yes indeed there is! Why? Because I happen to like the Mystrade pairing quite a lot, just about as much as the Johnlock pairing. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Please review, even if you didn't. I love reading what you people think!
> 
> P.S. I'm participating in April's Camp NaNoWriMo this year which means that I'm trying to write 50,000 words worth of a novel in 30 days. Needless to say that this in combination with my job and getting ready to go back to college will leave me little time to write for Panthera Pardus. Never fear though! I will endeavor to finish the next chapter soon. It probably won't be up on Friday, but I will try to get it out by the 10th. Hopefully... I know you guys really hate cliff-hangers.


	10. The Race Is On

Mycroft Holmes sighed as he swept his hand back along his balding head. It had been approximately six hours since Sherlock had disappeared as a panther into the urban jungle of London. Mycroft had managed to track him down eventually. It wasn't difficult to miss a black leopard roaming the streets of London, even if it was evening going on night. Sherlock was normally much more careful of how he ran when he was a panther on the streets of London, but it appeared that losing his mate had made him careless.

The elder Holmes could relate. He and Gregory had only completed the bond going on a year ago now. He couldn't imagine the lengths he'd go to if his mate were lost or injured. Just the thought of going through what Sherlock was going through for John made Mycroft want to be close to Gregory. He resisted for all of two minutes before rising from his chair and grabbing his coat on the way out of his office.

Greg would still be at the office now even though it was going on eleven o'clock. There had been three bodies at that warehouse which always meant a lot of paperwork for the DI. Anthea was ready for him with the car when he walked out of the office. He gave his assistant a small smile before sliding into the back seat of the sleek black sedan. He sent a text message telling Gregory to meet him outside NSY in fifteen minutes. "New Scotland Yard, Benjamin," he addressed his driver.

The sedan pulled away from the curb and merged into traffic. Mycroft had sent men out to watch over Sherlock to make sure he didn't get into too much trouble. He knew that his younger brother wouldn't listen to anything he said now. The only way to get Sherlock back to 221B and back on the case was to get John back, which was exactly what Mycroft had been working on. The government official had used all of his resources to track down John, but all they had given him was that John had been taken from the warehouse and into a helicopter that had headed north.

Mycroft leaned back in the leather seat of the sedan and closed his eyes for a moment. John's safe return was priority. He'd seen the note that had been left for Sherlock; Gregory had found it in the younger man's pocket. Moriarty was indeed a cunning opponent. A question that had yet to be answered though, what did Moriarty want with Sherlock? It was obvious that John had been taken to get to Sherlock, but what could Moriarty want to tell Sherlock?

The sedan wove through traffic with ease, and Mycroft found himself pondering what he knew of Moriarty himself. James Moriarty, according to official records was man thirty-three years of age, born in southern Malahide in Ireland to parents who'd sent him off to boarding school as soon as he was old enough. After boarding school he went to University at Oxford where he graduated with a triple major in social sciences, economics, and politics. However he dropped off the radar after university. According to official records, James Moriarty had done nothing after university. He hadn't gotten a job, or pursued further education.

Unofficially, Mycroft had found things that concerned him greatly. The Irish man had gathered a network of individuals. All of whom had legal businesses, but some of whom were known to have underhand dealings. Mycroft suspected that all of these individuals had illegal dealings with drugs, human trafficking, smuggling, or other such underhanded things. Moriarty was at the center of it all. Each and every one of these businesses owed him for one thing or another, and it was only through much digging that Mycroft's people had learned this. Just as Sherlock was a consulting detective, Mycroft had come to the conclusion that Moriarty was a consulting criminal.

The elder Holmes strongly suspected that John had been taken back to Dublin where Moriarty was rumored to have his base of operations. However there was no way of proving that. He had every one of his people in both the UK and the Republic of Ireland on watch for the helicopter seen leaving the warehouse district, but no reports of its landing had come in. Which probably meant that they'd landed somewhere discreet and then transported John via automobile. While it wasn't impossible to track John, Moriarty certainly wasn't making it easy.

The sedan pulled up in front of NSY then and Benjamin hopped out of the vehicle to open the door. Gregory Lestrade slid into the sleek car and scooted over until he was pressed against Mycroft. The elder Holmes waited until the door was closed again to reach for his mate and pull him forward. His nose went immediately to Gregory's neck where there was a scar from the bite mark he'd received upon bonding. The scent there was rich and all Gregory. Mycroft inhaled deeply, nuzzling into his mate's neck while his arms held him tight, nearly pulling the silver haired detective into his lap.

"My," Greg breathed. His own arms came up to hug Mycroft tightly to him. He breathed in the shapeshifter's scent and waited until Mycroft's grip loosened a bit before speaking. "Not that I don't appreciate your coming, but what's this all about?"

"I've been thinking too long on Sherlock and John's predicament."

Greg's eyes narrowed as they swept over Mycroft's downturned face. "You started thinking of what if it had been me?" he asked, not really needing an answer. The older man didn't answer. Greg smiled and pulled Mycroft's face up to press a chaste kiss against his lips. "My, I'm not going anywhere. This Moriarty guy is obviously targeting your brother. I don't think I'm even in his scope."

"Thank you, Gregory, but that doesn't stop this need to be closer to you."

Greg smiled and kissed Mycroft again. This time it was a slow sensuous thing with gentle teasing until Mycroft's mouth opened. Greg's tongue entered and slowly licked at the ginger's teeth. He made sure to thoroughly examine Mycroft's mouth before pulling back, a soft whimper following him. "Better?"

Mycroft opened his eyes. He didn't remember when he'd shut them. His eyes automatically found Gregory's hazel eyes looking back at him, a soft smile playing at his lips. He wanted to take the man home and ravish him until he was a begging, moaning, pile of need then start all over again. However he knew the man still had much to do. He himself had much to do, and none of it could wait. He sighed and pressed his forehead against his mate's. "It'll have to do for now," he replied. "We both need to get back to work."

Greg frowned, but nodded. "You're right. I should go. Thank you for coming though. I didn't realize how much I missed you until I saw you."

Mycroft smiled. "You're welcome, Gregory. I'll see you tomorrow sometime?"

"Count on it," Greg grinned as Benjamin opened the door for him again.

: : :

Sherlock ran.

His paws carried him over the hard turf of a park before continuing on over the black top of a nearby road and into an alleyway. He'd heard the helicopter take off from the warehouse, but hadn't been able to follow quickly enough. All he knew was what others had seen. He'd met with a few members of his homeless network and was able to determine that the helicopter had left the city flying northwest. He knew it was useless to follow as a panther, but all of his instincts demanded he run, that he follow the great sky bird and find his mate.

It was not long past when John had been taken and the man was definitely out of the city now. However Sherlock had not spent the past six hours idly. He'd run as a panther between different members of his homeless network, gathering information. He now knew that Moriarty was a major league criminal who planned operations and sent out operatives to perform them. Hundreds of people in the UK and the Republic of Ireland alone owed him favors. His network extended across Europe and Asia, and even into the Americas.

Sherlock slowed as he approached 221b. He'd finally managed to gather enough information to project that John was most likely in Dublin. More information would be needed, but he hoped that studying the evidence that Moriarty had left for him would be beneficial. He'd been able to tell at a glance around the room that the small sack had been a bomb. After careful thought and after all the information he'd learned that night from his network, Sherlock had deduced that Moriarty was developing a type of bomb to be sold on the black market. One that was made to go inside a human being and pass through any security checkpoint. The only way one would know if another person had a bomb in them was if it went off.

The market for suicide bombers wasn't enormous, but these bombs didn't have to be detonated inside the person. They could be simply transported inside the person to pass through security then removed and placed elsewhere to detonate. Over all, it was an idea that was in short, genius. Everyone would be a suspect, and no one would be safe. It would induce a sort of fear not experienced by this generation before.

Approaching the backside of 221, Sherlock growled approvingly when he saw that Mrs. Hudson had left her window open. He reared back on his hind paws to gauge the amount of open space and the height. Should be just enough, he thought. Crouching down, he quickly calculated the trajectory then sailed smoothly through the window to land in Mrs. Hudson's kitchen. The woman in question was sitting at the kitchen table and screamed loudly, nearly falling over in her chair. Her teacup smashed to the floor, the tea splashing all over.

"Sherlock!" she finally gasped out, her eyes still wide. "You change back this instant!"

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. Slowly, he changed back into a human, grabbing a dishrag has he did to cover himself. Mrs. Hudson hardly noticed though as she started to berate him. "Trying to scare me to death, are you? Well you're doing a bang up job of it! I don't care if John is missing, that's no excuse to terrify your landlady!"

Sherlock gave her a hard look at the mention of John. She seemed to realize what she'd said though and looked down contritely. "I'm sorry, Sherlock," she apologized. "I didn't mean that the way it came out."

The consulting detective sighed. "It's fine, Mrs. Hudson."

"You'd best get upstairs then. I imagine you came home for a reason."

"Correct. I have much to do, and very little time to do it in," he moved off to the stairs to 221b, completely oblivious to the fact that the dishrag was only covering his front.

Mrs. Hudson blushed, but nodded as he passed. "Call if you need anything, dear," she said as he passed.

Sherlock nodded absently as he left 221a and ran up the stairs to 221b. He frowned down at the dishrag and walked into his room to dress in his regular loose silk pajama bottoms and an old cotton tee shirt underneath his blue housecoat. Upon exiting his bedroom, he noticed that his heavy wool coat was lying over the back of John's chair. So Mycroft had been by; that explained how Mrs. Hudson knew of John's kidnapping. Sherlock frowned at the thought of his elder brother in the apartment, but left the thought as he turned to focus on the evidence that was currently sitting in a plastic container in the fridge.

He would need to work quickly. He had no idea what Moriarty had meant when he said that John's life would be dripping away. However he'd chosen to take it literally. If Moriarty had cut John so that his blood dripped out, he didn't have much time (depending on the cut). Quickly, Sherlock took up the plastic container holding the part of a liver that had been turned into a bomb.

: : :

John groaned as his head swam towards consciousness. Everywhere ached as though he'd just gotten done with a rather vigorous rugby game. He moved to press the heel of his hand against his eyes and rub the sleep away, but met resistance. Slowly opening his eyes, John noticed first and foremost that he wasn't in 221b. He was in a small dark room with grayish paint peeling from the walls. There was a chair against the wall opposite him, and he lay on the ground. The second thing he noticed was that his hands and feet were tied. He tugged at the bonds, but found that they were indeed tied securely.

Trying to keep calm, John tried to take inventory of everything. The last thing he remembered was stitching up the soldier in the warehouse when someone had held a chloroform doused cloth over his nose. He could still taste the sickening sweetness on the back of his tongue. The room he was in didn't have a window and was very small, approximately two by two meters. It was lit with a small lantern using a florescent bulb. It smelled strongly of mold and mildew, and had shelving higher up on the wall with bars to hang clothing. So he was in a closet, an old disused closet by the smell of it. John wrinkled his nose and tried to sit up.

His head spun a little after spending so long lying down, but eventually he managed to get himself upright and lean back against the wall. He had to lean at an angle though, given that his hands were tied behind his back. The former army doctor figured he must have been in the room for at least a couple of hours judging by how much his shoulder ached. However that was pretty much the extent of what he could gather from his surroundings. He gently rested his head back on the wall and closed his eyes. If Sherlock were here, he could probably tell where they were just by the carpet on the floor. The blond man chuckled to himself.

"Ah, awake I see," an oily voice said as the door opened with a screech.

John squinted at the light coming through. It wasn't even that bright, but he'd been in the dark for so long, that his eyes took a while to adjust. "Who are you?" he started.

The man in the doorway crouched down so he was on John's level. "Jim Moriarty," he drawled, a slight Irish accent tingeing his words. "Sooo nice to meet you, Johnny boy!"

John immediately didn't like the guy. There was just something about him that exuded menace, and we're not talking Dennis the Menace kind of trouble either. "What the hell do you want?"

"Oh, that's no way to speak to your betters, Johnny! Besides, I just wanna show you something."

With that, Moriarty stepped to the side and let a behemoth of a man into John's closet. He was tall with reddish brown hair and muscles that looked like he worked out for four hours every single day! "Seb, please bring Johnny into the main room here. I want him to see what I have in store for him," Moriarty commanded the man.

John flinched back from Seb as the man reached out for him. However instead of roughly grabbing him, the giant pulled him forward before lifting him up and carrying him over one shoulder into the other room. He set John down in a plain wooden chair then stepped away. The room that the closet was attached to wasn't really much better than the closet itself, but at least it had more light coming in from the curtained windows. The room was bare except for a low bed with an IV stand next to it and some kind of machine with tubes sticking out of it. John's face paled. Were they going to do some sort of experiment on him?

Moriarty stood casually next to the IV stand, his hands clasped behind his back and a rather disturbing grin on his face. "Now, I'll bet your trying to use that rather limited intelligence of yours to figure out what it is I have planned for you." John remained quiet and stared at Moriarty. "It is rather delightful, if I do say so myself," he continued grinning. "In essence, it's a blood transfusion. However first we have to run your blood through a scrubber that gets rid of the things that will attack the new blood. Then we can introduce the new blood into your system and see what happens!" He clapped his hands excitedly. "Shall we get started?"

"Whoa, hang on," John tried to stall. "Just what is it in the new blood that might be attacked?"

"Oh did I forget to mention?" Moriarty looked truly contrite for all of five seconds before his manic grin came back. "The blood we're introducing to your system is shapeshifter blood."

John's eyes widened and his mouth fell open a little bit before he had the presence of mind to snap it shut. How in the bloody hell did Moriarty know about shapeshifters? Bugger that! He was giving John shapeshifter blood! Would this turn John into a shapeshifter? Or would it just kill him?

"Ah, I see you know what I'm talking about," Moriarty taunted. "And now you're wondering whether it's going to kill you." At this, Moriarty jerked his head towards Seb. "Show him Seb."

Seb stepped out from behind John so that the army doctor could see as Seb unselfconsciously stripped down and stood still. He started to grow fur and his body started to rearrange itself similar to how Sherlock and Mycroft's did when shifting, however there was a subtle difference… Seb was turning into a tiger, as was evident when the fur fully grew out and it was orange and black. And not only was he any tiger, but John would guess that Seb was a Siberian Tiger, going by the size of him. Moriarty stepped forward and leisurely ran a hand along the tiger's back as the animal twitched its tail from side to side. John found himself leaning back in the chair as far as he could go.

"No need to be afraid," Moriarty said calmly petting the tiger's back. "He only does as commanded." He smirked a little then. "Okay, maybe a little afraid. After all, it would be just as entertaining to see your mate's reaction to seeing your throat ripped out."

John's face paled at the mention of having his throat ripped out, but he was rather proud of his level voice when he spoke next. "I hardly think that's necessary," he tried to be convincing.

Moriarty chuckled. "Good show, doctor, but I can see your pulse going a mile a minute in your neck, just there." He tapped the side of John's neck with one pale cold finger. John flinched back from the touch, and Moriarty retracted his hand. He gave John another sinister smirk. "Right, let's get this show on the road. Change back, Seb."

Once again, Seb morphed and without any insecurities, redressed himself. Without prompting, Seb lifted John once more and moved him to the bed. He cut the zip tie holding John's arms behind his back and proceeded to shackle his right wrist to the bed in a leather cuff. John, however, had other ideas and swung his left hand as hard as he could, given that the chloroform hadn't completely left his system. His fist landed solidly against Seb's jaw with a sickening smack. Seb, formerly docile suddenly became alert and used his full strength to restrain John. His left hand was squeezed in the shapeshifter's fist until it hurt and his right was already cuffed.

Moriarty tutted softly and sighed. "That was a bad idea, Johnny," he scolded. "You'll have to be punished for that." John struggled against Seb's might to no avail and spit in Moriarty's direction. It didn't hit him, but it made John feel better. Moriarty looked down at where the spit had landed with distaste before turning back to John. "Just for that, we won't be putting you under for the procedure. I've been told it's quite painful. Feels something like acid burning through your veins," he remarked. "Of course that's only what I've heard from the other test subjects." He smirked.

He moved around to the other side of the bed and shackled John's left wrist into the leather cuff while Seb held him down. Then they both moved to John's feet. Seb held his legs down with a painful pressure while Moriarty cut the zip tie and cuffed his ankles. With quick efficiency, two needles were hooked up to John's elbow and the machine was turned on.

John knew about blood scrubbing. He'd prescribed it for a few patients actually during his intern years, but it was mostly just for cleaning the system of cholesterol, and it was only a last resort. He didn't know how Moriarty had modified the treatment to get rid of the things in his blood that would attack the shapeshifter blood, but he wasn't too thrilled about it. It would probably mean a much weaker immune system.

Laying back against the thin pillow on the bed, John began to feel a bit woozy as the blood was sucked out his arm to be run through the machine. _Where are you, Sherlock?_ he thought as he closed his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this is your mid-month update for April! Once again, sorry that my update schedule is off. I'm doing a writing challenge wherein I have to write 50,000 words in 30 days. www.campnanowrimo.org if anyone wants to check it out! So you probably won't see another update from me until May 1st at the earliest. Once again, apologies...
> 
> In case you couldn't tell, this story is coming to a close. I'm not quite sure how many more chapters there will be, but I'm thinking somewhere in the neighborhood of four? I don't know, I tend to ramble on sometimes, so it could be more. Also, a big thanks to all of the support I got last chapter for doing the writing challenge! You guys are great!!


	11. A Little Help

"Grab the paddles!" John heard, but it sounded muffled, as though his head was wrapped in cotton balls. "You're not allowed to die, Johnny boy!"

John arched against the stiff bed as electricity slammed through his body, kick starting his heart and making sure he couldn't slip away from this torturous hell. Sweat dripped from his brow and his breaths came in sharp pants. His entire body ached. Moriarty's description of acid running through the veins wasn't that far off. John panted as he tried to control his body, but soon gave up. It was remarkable how dignity and integrity went out the window when one was in immense pain.

A smooth cool hand gripped John's arm tightly, though the pain lancing through his veins overrode everything else. "You're not getting out of this that easily," Moriarty's voice growled into his ear. "I will resurrect your dead body if necessary. However you will not like it if I do."

The tight grip left John's bicep and John sank back against the bed as he gasped for air. His heart rate was up and he couldn't escape the pain no matter which way he turned. "Sir," a second voice said from the other side of John's bed. "We need to lower his pain levels. It's disrupting the transfusion. He won't survive it if his heart gives out from the stress of the pain."

John could hear Moriarty let out an exaggerated sigh. "Fine, do it, but only just enough to lower his pain levels so that the transfusion won't be endangered."

A shuffling sound was heard and then silence as the attendant pushed the pain killer into John's IV. A minute later, John could feel it working. He recognized it as morphine from how it was working and how quickly it spread. Thankfully, the pain lessened. His body sank, sweat soaked, down onto the bed. His breathing slowed and he felt a lassitude sweep over him. While the pain hadn't disappeared completely, it was more tolerable now.

John let himself relax for a while. His muscles were stiff and aching, add that to the fire that raced through his veins, he'd had one hell of a day. Or at least he thought it had only been a day. He couldn't honestly say for sure. It could be longer or it could have only been a few hours. Pain did that to a person, warped their sense of time.

He rested while he could. He had no doubt that Moriarty would let the pain climb into intolerable levels again before allowing another dose of morphine. He only hoped that Sherlock would come before then. _Please, Sherlock! Don't leave me here!_ he pleaded internally. The fear of being left, again, swelled over him, leaving him panting again. Flashbacks of coming home as a ten-year-old boy danced before him. He could still remember walking into the tiny kitchen, it's walls painted a pale yellow, to find his mother, face in her hands as she cried. Her completely desolate sobs made him want to cry as well, but he'd remained strong, going over to comfort her. When he'd asked what was wrong, she'd told him that his father had left. He'd asked when his dad was coming back, but she'd only sobbed harder. John had learned that day to guard his heart well, because even those you loved and who loved you, could still hurt you.

He felt a sense of dread sweep over him then, and he tried to fight it off, but couldn't. His chest felt constricted, and he clenched his hands in the sheet to give himself something to anchor him. Sherlock wouldn't leave him. The man was too possessive. _But what if…?_ a small part of John's brain asked. No, Sherlock would come. He had to come.

_______________________________________

"Sir," Anthea's calm voice addressed Mycroft Holmes as she proffered a manila envelope.

Mycroft reached across his desk and took the envelope, sending a thankful wave in his assistant's direction before she exited once more, her nose buried in her Blackberry. The soft sounds of paper flicking was all that could be heard for a few long minutes before Mycroft opened the envelope. He knew what was inside, but it was still nice to have the concrete proof in his hands. There, staring back at him, was a somewhat blurry set of photos taken at around half past two this morning. The black and white CCTV photos focused on a figure exiting a building through a side window. The figure was small and had a long bushy tail. A squirrel.

Normally, Mycroft wouldn't be bothered by a squirrel infiltrating a boarded up factory building. However, as was evident in the other photos, this was no ordinary squirrel. The next photo showed that the squirrel had stopped in the alleyway, and seemed to be larger than the previous picture. The next image showed a figure half morphed between human and squirrel, followed by a photo of a lean willowy woman with dark hair just past her shoulders. She was in profile to the camera though the slight blur in the photo helped to protect her modesty.

The next image showed the woman waving at the camera, before she morphed again, this time into a fox that scurried out of frame in the next few pictures. There was no doubt that the woman had deliberately revealed herself to the camera. The question was, why? Mycroft flipped back through the photos. The woman had a unique talent. She could shift between multiple forms. Most shifters he had heard of could only shift to one form. He'd heard of individuals, while he was in Afghanistan assisting his parents, who could shift to multiple forms, but had never found any proof. He'd thought the stories to be just myth.

However, here in his hands, he held definitive evidence that these individuals existed. He had so many questions for this woman. Were these her only forms? Or could she shift to more? Were there limitations? And then there was the big question, could she shift into other people? Mycroft sighed as he ran a hand through his thinning hair. This woman obviously wanted his attention; well she had it. He flipped to the last paper that came in the envelope. This one held text with a small picture of the same woman from the CCTV photos. His team had managed to find her information based on the grainy pictures. He would have to remember to give them a bonus in their next paycheck.

The woman's name was Irene Adler. She held a permanent address in Westminster, but hadn't returned there since her appearance on CCTV footage. Which begged the question, what did she want? Mycroft set the sheet of paper down and loosened his tie before picking up his short tumbler with two fingers of fourteen-year-old scotch on the rocks. He tipped back a mouthful, the ice clinking against the glass. Teams had already been assigned around the clock watches of CCTV cameras as well as a couple dozen pairs of his people patrolling the streets. There was little else to be done until either Ms. Adler was found or she made contact again.

Turning back to the front on John Watson, Sherlock had been in touch. Unusual for him, but shifters did weird things when their mates were in jeopardy. Mycroft could attest to this. A few weeks ago, Greg had been hit in the head with the butt of a gun by a perpetrator and ended up in the hospital for stitches. When Mycroft had heard, he'd dropped what he'd been holding (including a glass of brandy that he'd been sharing with the Prime Minister's wife) and charged out the door to make sure his mate was okay. Sherlock, in comparison, was actually doing a little better. Aside from driving Mrs. Hudson up the wall with his nocturnal pursuits, he hadn't really done anything different than if he working on a particularly vexing case.

Not to suggest John's disappearance wasn't more than just a case. Mycroft was merely commenting on the fact that his brother seemed to be holding it together rather well considering the circumstances. However he suspected that would not be the case should the situation last any longer than it already had. John Watson needed to be found, and fast.  
_______________________________________

Sherlock stared at the note for a long while before setting it back down on the table. The handwritten message had been delivered while he'd been out gathering information from his homeless network. It wasn't stamped or postmarked, meaning someone had dropped it off personally. Written on a heavy sheet of pale parchment, the note was written in neat tidy cursive that looked to be a woman's hand. The fierce way the T's were crossed and the I's dotted, made Sherlock think that this woman was a confident person and very much an A type personality.

Glancing back down at it, he let his eyes roam over the words again even though he'd memorized it after the first reading.

_Quite a predicament you've gotten yourself into. Should you like some pointers, I'd be glad to oblige… for a nominal fee of course. Meet me at Queen Mary's Gardens in Regent's Park at dusk._

_IA_

Sherlock glanced up at the clock on the mantle once more, noting that it was getting on toward half past six. The sun would be setting any moment now. He wasn't quite ready to admit that he needed help, but then his mind shifted to John. A low inhuman growl slipped past his lips as he thought of what Moriarty could be doing to his bondmate and he rose from the kitchen chair with such force that it tipped over backwards with a clatter.

The detective didn't bother to pick it up before grabbing his coat and scarf from the rack beside the door and marching out the door. Regent's Park was only a ten-minute walk from the flat, and Queen Mary's Garden, near the center, only fifteen minutes more. When he arrived, there was no one insight. The garden was calm and still in the late evening shadows, almost ready to sleep for the night. An owl hooted from a nearby tree and Sherlock glanced up in time to see it take flight. The bird swooped down from its branch and landed on the seat of a bench not ten feet away.

He gave the owl a curious look. Usually birds didn't sit on benches. However his eyes widened as the bird quickly began to grow and morph into something else. Short scaly legs became long, slender, and smooth. Grey and white banded wings became willowy arms. A fierce raptor gaze became a calculating look from sly brown eyes. Before him, where an owl had stood, now sat a curvy beautiful brunette woman. A coquette smile graced her face as she crossed her legs and folded her arms over her bare chest. "A proper gentleman would offer a lady his coat," she remarked casually.

"A proper lady wouldn't be caught out in naught but what mother nature gave her," the dark haired detective retorted as he slipped off his heavy wool coat and handed it to the woman.

She stood and slid the warm coat on over her shoulders, wrapping it around her middle and seeming to enjoy the feel of the silk lining against her bare skin. Coy brown eyes looked up at Sherlock and her bright red lips grinned again. "I like you, Mr. Holmes," she began as she sat down again.

"It would seem you have the upper hand on me."

"Indeed," her eyes traveled down his lean form, exposed now that his coat wasn't blocking. "Irene Adler," she introduced herself finally. "We only have a few minutes, because I'm quite sure your brother has sent a patrol of his finest to obtain me."

"Then be quick," Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest and glared down at her. A feeling of annoyance was quickly rising.

"If you wish," she nodded. "I can tell you where to find your bondmate. Or at least where James Moriarty would be most likely to hold him. He does have quite a few residences, you know, so one can never be certain."

"However?" Sherlock saw where this was going. She would want payment for her information.

"However, as I said in my note, I would charge a nominal fee for such information. After all, it could mean my skin should certain people find out that I've betrayed their confidence."

"Name your price."

"A new identity, and safe passage to Canada."

"You think Moriarty can't reach you there? I doubt it. And what makes you think I could grant you such things?"

"Your brother," she smiled. "As much as I know you loathe asking him for favors, I suspect that you'd do just about anything to get your bondmate back. As for Moriarty, his reach is quite long, I know. However it is not quite as strong where I plan on going."

"You may be the first person I've met who knows entirely too much for their own well-being, Ms. Adler."

The woman shrugged. "A hazard of who I am."

"And just who are you?"

"Someone who can help you, Mr. Holmes. I suggest you decide quickly, because your brother's men are walking up the path now," she nodded behind Sherlock.

"Fine, yes," he grumbled. "I will do my utmost to ensure Mycroft gives you what you want."

She smiled once again. "You will receive the information you need as soon as I am on my way across the ocean."

At that moment, a man in dark sunglasses and wearing a suite sidled up next to them and firmly grasped Irene's arm, pulling her up. "If you'll come with us, Ms. Adler."

Two other men closed ranks around her as well. Sherlock, a furious look on his face, stood his ground in front of them. "Tell me what I need to know," he said calmly, despite his appearance.

"Just as soon as I'm safe."

Sherlock reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out his mobile, hitting the buttons viciously until he came to Mycroft's number. His brother answered on the second ring. "Brother, dear. What can I do for you?"

"Irene Adler. You will give her what she wants."

"That would depend on what she wants, Sherlock."

"She will tell us what we need to know to get John back."

Silence filled the line for a moment and Sherlock knew his brother was thinking of his own mate. "Yes, of course, Sherlock," Mycroft said quietly. "You will have your mate back."

"Thank you, Mycroft," Sherlock replied before ending the call. "You will have what you want," he addressed Irene Adler.

"And so shall you."

"If John is hurt when I find him, and if I find that it was your delay that caused him that pain, there will be no safe place for you," he growled as Mycroft's men started to move away.

"Just remember if that should happen, that you might not have found him at all without my help," she replied walking along to a black sedan parked on the edge of the park.

Sherlock merely glowered at her as she was led away. Soon, he would have John back soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My deepest apologies for how long it took to update. However I have had quite a bit going on during the past month. I finished and won Camp NaNoWriMo, I am waist deep in wedding plans for a friend, I got my wisdom teeth (yes all four) out, and I have two other weddings to help with, and I'm still getting over some kind of illness. Dunno what it was, but we're talking violently sick here. Kill me now…
> 
> But no really. I do enjoy writing this story and reading your reactions. I pretty much know how this is going to turn out, so hopefully it won't take so long for the next update.


	12. False Leads

John Watson had never been an extremely religious sort. Sure, he'd gone to church with his mother, father, and sister. That was until his father decided to leave, and his sister stopped caring, and he figured out that the preacher was talking about his sister when he talked about sinners going straight to hell. After that, the Catholic Church hadn't held much appeal. He'd even looked into alternative religions, trying to see if he fit in somewhere. However he'd never really found comfort in religion.

Every man has a breaking point though. And when that threshold his broken, and the wish for death is all one can think about as an alternative to what he's going through, a man finds out just what kind of person he is. For John, he found out that he was the sort to beg. He begged Moriarty to stop. He begged Sherlock to come. He begged God, Allah, Buddah, Yahweh, Zeus, Odin, Vishnu, Osiris to just let him die. He begged his mother to forgive him for running off to the army when he turned eighteen. He begged Moriarty to just be done with it. To which the response he received was just a low chuckle and, "Soon, Johnny boy, soon."

The burning intensity flowing through his veins kicked up a notch and John arched up against the bed. His hands and feet were shackled, but the rest of him was free to move about. He pulled and raged against the restraints to no effect. The thick leather cuffs held him immobile. Fire licked his skin and acid burned his veins. He couldn't breath properly and he felt his vision begin to tunnel. However at that moment sweet relief came. A calm hand pressed down on his shoulder and John could feel something flood his system through the IV. Another dose of morphine probably.

"The bonding agent has been deployed, sir," the owner of the calm hand said. "The blood transformation is almost finished."

"Good, now it'll only be a matter of time."

"Sir, if you don't mind my asking, how do you plan to force him to transform?"

A low chuckle filled the small room. "I have methods of persuasion."

"Yes, sir."

And that was all John heard before he drifted off, blackness swallowing him up and consuming him whole.

\---------------------------

It took approximately eight hours before Irene Adler was safely on board a plane headed for Canada. Sherlock had to admit that she had played her hand well by calling on Mycroft before coming to meet with him. It forced Sherlock to do as she asked if he wanted her information. From what he'd learned since then, Irene Adler had actually only dealt with Jim Moriarty on a few occasions. He'd given her information on how to blackmail people, and she'd given him inside information once she was able to get close to her target.

However unlike, Moriarty, Irene seemed to have some sort of a moral compass. She wanted to be done with the man, and was willing to turn traitor against him. Fortunately for Sherlock, it benefited him and allowed him a chance to get his bondmate back. A surge of adrenaline shot through him at the thought being so close. As soon as Irene had given them her intel, Sherlock had boarded a private jet (provided by Mycroft, of course) and started making his way to Dublin. He'd suspected that Moriarty would return to his home base, so to speak. There hadn't been any definitive proof though, and Mycroft had held Sherlock back until there was some.

Now, the small plane was descending towards Dublin International Airport, and Sherlock was anxious to get moving. The small band of men that his brother had sent along with adjusted their gear and made ready to leave as soon as the plane came to a stop. Sherlock disliked planes; the small cramped spaces were noisy and not conducive to thinking. However necessity demanded he travel as quickly as possible and Mycroft Holmes' personal jet was the quickest way to get to John.

The plane landed smoothly and little preamble, made it's way to a private hanger where they were to unload. Despite how much Sherlock wanted to just run to Moriarty's safe house, he knew that things needed to be done a certain way so that John wouldn't be hurt any more than he already had been.

Soon enough, they were traveling through the congested city streets and parking a few blocks away from their target. Sherlock moved seamlessly with Mycroft's operatives, following their unspoken hand signals and making his way toward the back door of a two and a half story building that looked to have been abandoned except for the heavy locks and nearly invisible cameras positioned discreetly.

John was in here. Sherlock felt certain that somewhere in this house, his bondmate lay waiting for him. The cameras would surely be monitored, and they seemed to cover every inch of the house. A silent hand signal from the lead operative indicated for Sherlock to stay where he was. The detective nodded and watched as the man moved stealthily towards the house, using the brush for cover. Once he was close enough, he pointed a gun of some type towards the camera covering the back door. A low buzzing filled Sherlock's ears and sparks came from the camera as well as the one on the other side of the door. Quick hand signals and marching feet followed and Sherlock moved with the other four men as they broke down the door and spread out to cover the house. Sherlock waited for all of two minutes until the all clear was called out before running up the stairs towards the smell of John. He was here; he had to be! The dark haired detective burst into an upstairs bedroom and halted, his long dark coat swirling forward at the abrupt stop.

In the room, was John's sweater. Spots of blood spattered across the cable knit creamy wool, but there was no John. Instead, a video display playing in a loop had been set up showing John shackled to a bed. His trembling form was covered in sweat and his body was jerking and arching at painful angles. Sherlock didn't realize how tense he had become or that his nails were biting into his palms until one of Mycroft's operatives found him. "Sir?" he asked hesitantly.

Sherlock swirled away from the display. "He's not here. How could he not be here?" the dark haired detective growled, his eyes flashing.

The operative held out a folded over piece of parchment. "We found it in the front entry way," he said simply.

Sherlock took the parchment and unfolded it. Inside, Jim Moriarty's neat script flowed across the paper in dark loopy ink lines.

_Tut tut, Sherlock. You should have know that I wouldn't keep him here. Yes I knew of Ms. Adler's plans to betray me. Rest assured that she will be dealt with. But really, I expected more of you. Now it is too late. Your bondmate is mine. He will make a fine addition to my collection._

_I don't expect you'll stop looking, and I would be quite disappointed if you didn't find him eventually. Just know that he will never be yours again. I've found that I rather enjoy having him around as a pet. I suppose I see the appeal you saw in him. Having a pet can be great fun. Don't worry, I'll take good care of him._

_Do take care,_

_JM_

Sherlock's gloved hands were trembling. If it weren't for the fact that the parchment may hold clues on where Moriarty was keeping John, it would already be torn up and tossed to the ground. However, he instead passed it back to the lead operative who appeared to be considering whether he would have to defend himself from the younger Holmes. "Get this to my brother," Sherlock gritted out from clenched teeth.

A shiver stole through his frame as he then turned and bent to retrieve John's sweater. He held it close to his face, inhaling the smell of gunpowder, tea, and Old Spice body wash. The scent was fading, but still distinctly John. However there was a discrepancy. Sherlock frowned at the sweater for a moment before shoving his nose back in amongst the bloodstains. Right… THERE! There was a faint smell like that of crushed grain. It was earthy and reminded Sherlock of when the maid would bake bread on Saturday mornings.

He peered closely at the wool to see a fine tan powder blending in with the cream material. Carefully, he licked at it. He stood still for a few seconds before turning on his heel and marching out the door. "Quickly, I need a lab!" he called back to the lead operative.

Tests… he needed tests. This powder was crushed grain of some kind. Determining what kind it was and if there was any discrepancies in the coarseness or chemical make-up could lead them to where John was. However they would need to move quickly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short chapter, but very enlightening. Hopefully I'll be able to update next weekend sometime as well. Will be going on a trip, but the hotel should have internet. Thanks for continuing to put up with me and my irregular updates! I love you guys!


	13. The Boy Who Cried Wolf

John slowly became aware of his surroundings. His eyelids were reluctant to open, so he used other senses. A steady beep tracked his heart rate. However he wasn't in a hospital. A standard issue hospital bed would never have springs trying to jab out his kidneys. That and wherever he was smelled dusty and unused. He tried to move his arm to shift on the bed, but met resistance. Groaning, he finally opened his eyes. A small room, bare except for the bed, medical equipment sitting nearby, and one chair met his gaze. Thick leather cuffs around his wrists also met his gaze. "Fuck," he groaned as the past day or so came back.

He pulled at the cuffs around his wrists and ankles to little effect except to irritate the raw skin further. Grimacing at the pain, he went slack, panting. Where the hell was Sherlock? For that matter, how long had he been here? John tried to relax back into the bed, but it was difficult. He really wasn't sure how long it had taken for the blood transfusion, but it couldn't have been more than a couple of days, right? Sherlock would probably be here any minute. He wouldn't leave him here.

The heart rate monitor's beeper sped up slightly as John's breathing quickened. Gritting his teeth, John tensed. He knew he was on the verge of a panic attack, but that wouldn't help anything. He needed to stay calm, rational. Closing his eyes, he tried to picture himself as being at home, in his own bed. It didn't quite work what with the springs poking into his back, but the forced deep breathing exercises did help to lower his heart rate. Slowly, he came down from the edge.

That was, until the door squealed as it opened. John's eyes snapped back open and his head jerked over to see Moriarty followed by Seb. Moriarty was wearing a different Westwood suit and Seb was in different clothes as well. "Johnny boy!" Moriarty called out, raising his hands slightly, a disturbing grin on his pale face. "Glad to see you made it through! You worried us a little there before the bonding agent could be administered, but here we are."

"What the hell have you done to me?" John asked, his voice cracking from dehydration and overuse from screaming.

"Improved you," Moriarty smiled. "Seb," he snapped his fingers. "Cuffs."

Seb moved around to un-cuff John's limbs. John thought about striking out, but he felt so weak it could hardly make a difference against a behemoth of a man like Seb. Slowly, John sat up, cradling his raw wrists.

"Excellent," Moriarty clapped his hands. "Now, it's time to see just who you are. Everyone is different you see. You can introduce shapeshifter genes from a man who can shift into a lion or a bear, but the new shifter is unique. Everyone is different." He was smiling like a boy, but his eyes were alight with a manic kind of glee. It was obvious he didn't care if John was actually all right, so long as he got to do his little experiment.

"And what if I don't want to?" John rasped.

The manic grin grew wider. "Then we'll have to make you. Seb," he snapped his fingers again, and Seb began removing his clothing.

John paled a little as he realized what was happening. "You wouldn't kill me," he said, not taking his eyes from the man as he started to grow orange and black fur.

"If you won't shift for me, you're useless anyway," Moriarty shrugged.

John shuffled back on the bed as the now fully formed tiger crouched low. "Wait! I'll do it. I'll shift." John eyed the tiger as it relaxed back onto its haunches.

"Excellent!" Moriarty clapped his hands eagerly and crossed one leg over the other as he sat in the only chair.

John warily glanced over at the tiger once more as he concentrated. He didn't quite know what he was supposed to be doing, but concentrated anyway, even going so far as to close his eyes. However nothing happened. He didn't feel any different.

"Well?" an impatient Moriarty asked.

"I don't know what to do!" John growled, opening his eyes to see that Moriarty had shifted position so that he was leaning forward on his knees.

Moriarty sighed and shook his head. "I swear if you're some kind of useless animal, I'll make you into shoes." The dark haired man looked up and rested his chin on his folded hands. "While it helps to know what you're going to turn into, obviously we don't know that. Focus instead on yourself, on your breathing, on your body. Or else I'll allow Seb here to do as he thinks best to teach you how to shift."

John frowned at the tiger who moved again to crouch down. Letting out a long breath before closing his eyes. He relaxed back on the bed, allowing his limbs to go boneless at his sides. His breathing slowed and he almost felt ready to fall asleep. A weird sensation, like his organs were moving inside him made John frown a bit. It didn't hurt, but it was definitely not normal. He was changing; he knew he was, but he wasn't quite sure how, and he was afraid that if he stopped concentrating it would stop. "Beautiful… _Canis Lupus_..." a low murmur broke through John's concentration a minute or so later. "And in a rare color too."

His eyes opened to see Moriarty crouching, close to him. However the coloring was off just a bit. It was like everything had been dulled, and there were certain colors he couldn't see, like the red in Moriarty's red and navy tie. _What are you talking about?_ he wanted to ask, but all that came out was a low whine.

Startled, he jerked back, limbs jumbled together and uncoordinated, not to mention the awkward way his clothes fit him now. There were four legs with four paws all trying to work to get him on his feet, but after spending thirty-seven years with only two feet to worry about, it didn't quite work out. Instead he landed on the floor on the far side of the bed with a heavy thump.

He lay still for a moment, trying to take stock of the changes in his body. A heavy panting met his ears as well as a low steady breathing on the other side of the bed. And the smells! His olfactory department was on overload from all of the different smells surrounding him. Dust, mold, and mildew were the primary smells in the room, but there was also the stench of sweat and fear. John couldn't say how he knew it was fear, but the acrid way the sweat met his nostrils just connected with his brain as fear. It was a second before he realized that the sweat and fear was from him earlier when he'd been writhing on the bed. Rich leather, expensive cologne, and fine silk and wool met his nose as Moriarty walked around the bed.

A low growl met his ears, and once again, it took John a second to realize that the sound was coming from him. Moriarty only smiled down at him though. "A magnificent specimen," he commented. "You'll make a fine addition to my collection. Seb's not the only one, you know."

John managed to climb to his feet, kicking his jeans off as he did (the shirt was beyond his capabilities though), his hackles raised and his teeth bared at the man before him. He crouched low, instinct and fear making him defend himself. He launched himself toward the man in the Westwood suit, but never made contact as the air was pushed from his body when it hit the ground a half a second later. _DANGER! GET AWAY!_ his instincts screamed at him as he whined, trying to get out from under the large creature pinning him to the floor.

Moriarty tutted as he slowly approached. "That wasn't very smart, Johnny. We'll have to break you I see, but that can be fun too," he grinned as he crouched down by John's head.

Large claws dug into his shoulder as John tried to wiggle away from Moriarty's hand. However it was futile and the consulting criminal's hand petted gently through the fur on John's head. "You know, I have just the thing to get you started," he commented, rising from his crouch and walking back over to a bag sitting on the floor near the chair. He rooted around a bit before pulling something out and returning to where Seb had John pinned. John looked up to see a collar of some kind dangling from Moriarty's hand. He tried to wiggle away again, but a low growl and long sharp fangs against his neck stopped him. Moriarty, oblivious to John's panic, deftly fastened the collar around John's neck, the small black box on the device pressing sharply against his throat. "Excellent," he smiled manically as he stood. "Alright, let him up, Seb."

The pressure left John's side and he scrambled to his feet, backing away from the tiger for extra insurance, his tail tucked between his legs. He had a tail? John turned slightly and saw that there was indeed a long furry tail behind him. He didn't focus too long on it though before turning back to Moriarty. "Try it," he said, stretching his arms wide. "I'll allow you this once."

John glanced over at the tiger then back at Moriarty. "Go on then. Seb won't interfere."

John crouched low, unsure of what he should do. Was this some kind of trap? "Attack me!" Moriarty commanded. "Or else I'll find Sherlock and make sure you watch as his blood spills across the floor!"

At this, John let out a growl and leapt at Moriarty. However a pulsing electrical current passed through his body and he lost all thought and concentration, resulting in him crashing to the floor in a twitching heap. "Oh that's delightful!" Moriarty clapped his hands. "Did you see that, Seb? How his eyes grew wide and his paws twitched? Fantastic!" He laughed as he crouched next to John who was panting.

"Just wanted to let you know what would happen if you disobey, try to get away, or attack me. Hell, I might do it again just to see that," he looked down at the small black remote in his hand with fondness. "It was quite amusing."

John whimpered as he tried to regain his sense of equilibrium. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on being human. This was too much; he'd had enough. However when he opened his eyes, he still saw through the same semi-color blind eyes as before. A whine left his muzzle as he glanced between Seb the tiger and a grinning Moriarty. "I imagine you just tried to revert to your human form? Hmm? Had a special gadget added to the collar. It prevents you from changing form. Brilliant, isn't it?"

John let out a low growl, but didn't move to attack Moriarty again. He'd learned his lesson. His escape would have to come at a different time. "Alright, now I need to go make arrangements for your transport. Didn't know what kind of creature I'd be dealing with. I'm going to leave Sebby here to make sure you behave. I'd really much prefer if he didn't have to break your neck though."

With that, Moriarty smiled and walked out the door. Seb followed till the faded door and sat beside it facing in towards the room, his tail curled around him and flicking against the dusty floor.

John slowly got to his paws and limped over to the window. There wasn't anything else in the room to act as a reflective surface. He pushed himself up on his hind paws, his front ones resting on the windowsill. The face that met him in the window was unfamiliar and disturbing to think that it was still him behind it. However when he opened his mouth, the sandy monster of a wolf looking back at him opened his mouth as well. Light whitish beige covered the bottom half of his muzzle as well as his belly and legs. However the beige mixed with a deep strawberry blond along his back and ears. His eyes were a silver blue that were sharp and intense, and his ears were pointed and at attention. One flicked back toward the tiger guarding the door as he shifted slightly though.

John shoved away from the windowsill and landed back on the floor. He turned his head a bit to examine the rest of his body, noting that he had shaggy fur and a long sleek form. His tail was long and fluffy, matching the rest of him. Over all, he was quite magnificent to look at. Even if he did look a bit ridiculous with a white t-shirt on. Grumbling a bit, he glanced over at Seb to see that the tiger was watching him. His posture was relaxed, but from what John knew of tigers, they could go from sleep to killers in less than a second. Better to not underestimate him.

Instead, John tried to figure out how to get his t-shirt off. He tried to reach around and tug at the collar, but it only started to rip the harder he tugged. Next he tried to roll on the ground a bit, try to make it roll off, but it only resulted in the white material bunching up around his front legs. He huffed as he stopped rolling around and just lay still. Rising to his paws again, John thought perhaps he could tug it off now. Except that the moment he tried to reach around, the massive weight of a tiger attacked him, laying him flat and pinning him down.

John yipped and struggled to get away. However the tiger held him firmly. A shredding, tearing sound filled the air and John paused his escape attempts to look back. Seb was releasing him and calmly walking back to his post beside the door. Looking back at himself, John could see that the shirt now lay on the ground in tattered ruins. It wasn't a very important shirt, just a plain white undershirt really, but the fact that it had been ruined for no good reason still irked him.

He glanced over at the tiger, back in his guard position, and was confused as to why he had helped at all. John wasn't sure whether to thank him or growl at him. Instead he settled for ignoring him as he jumped up on the bed and settled at the foot, his head facing toward the door so he could keep an eye on the tiger.

About an hour later, John was bored and contemplating ways to escape. He'd already thought about trying to jump out a window, but he was fairly certain that the injuries he'd sustain would prevent him from getting very far. The only other exit was through the door that was being guarded by a tiger. John groaned and shifted around at the end of the bed. He was still dehydrated and it was causing a bit of a headache. The collar Moriarty had put on him was tight and John had to concentrate to not let the fear of choking overwhelm him.

He wondered what Moriarty had planned for him. The man had mentioned adding John to his collection, which frankly made the wolf a bit nervous. He could just imagine that the man had turned people into shapeshifters to use as his own personal guard animals. Seb was a prime example of this, though the tiger didn't wear a collar like John, he could only guess at the level of brain washing he'd been subjected to. Living the rest of his life as a guard wolf wasn't really appealing to John, but he still had hope that Sherlock would come for him. In the mean time, John wouldn't pass up an opportunity at escape if he found one.

John's head perked up and his fur stood on end as Moriarty entered the room again, the manic smile still in place. "Ah good, you're still alive," he commented. "Time to get going, Johnny boy. Places to be, training to complete."

The dark haired man stood to the side of the door, clearly indicating for John to exit. Warily, the wolf hopped down from the bed, stumbling a bit as he did so (he still wasn't used to four paws). As he drew closer to Moriarty, he could visualize himself leaping up and ripping out his throat. If he timed it right, Seb wouldn't be able to stop him. However Moriarty pulled his hand out of his pocket just then and John could see the remote that controlled his collar in his palm. He hesitated, his tail going between his legs. "Don't even think about it, Johnny boy. I won't hesitate to use this," Moriarty said. "Now come on, Seb will be right behind you in case you do something stupid."

John hunkered lower, an instinct from the new wolf side of him that made himself look smaller and less threatening. He really did not want Moriarty to press the button on that remote again. Instead, he followed the man in the Westwood suit out the door and into the hallway. It looked like they were in some kind of old abandoned farmhouse. John sniffed at the air and could smell dirt, dust, and some kind of grain. When they reached the main floor and exited the house, John could see that there was an old-fashioned mill right next door. It looked like it too had been abandoned. "In the van," Moriarty opened the back door to a black van.

John hopped in without hesitation and settled on the blankets in the back. Seb hopped in as well and lay down on the other side of the van. John eyed him warily, but the tiger seemed content to simply act as a placid guard. "Excellent," Moriarty clapped his hands once. "Don't worry, it won't be a long ride. However the plane trip might be a bit long." He grinned as he shut and locked the door.

If John had been human, he would have paled. How was Sherlock going to find him if they took a plane to god knows where? He had to escape, but there was no way out. There was heavy duty cage grating between the front and the back of the van, which only left the door, which was locked. John lay his head down between his paws and whined. He would have to figure something out when they stopped again. For now, there was little he could do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here's the next chapter! Took a while to get it out, but at least it's only been about a week and a half instead of a month! Righto, a little look into what's going on with John. I seriously debated with the animal John would be turning into and almost made him into a hedgehog just to throw you guys off, but then decided that a wolf would be best. Really it does suit his personality to a 'T'. Also! Pictures! I have pictures of what John and Sherlock look like in their animal forms as well as a picture that I found that I imagine Sherlock and Mycroft would have looked like as cubs! Seriously adorable! Never mind that the brothers are a few years apart! lol…
> 
> Hopefully I'll be getting the next chapter out around the same time as it took for this one. However please keep in mind that I am the Maid of Honor in a friend's wedding this weekend so obviously there will be no writing until that is over with! I'm lucky to have been able to upload today!
> 
> TTFN!
> 
> Sherlock  
>   
> John  
>   
> Mycroft & Sherlock as cubs  
> 


	14. Bread Crumbs

Sherlock crouched low in the old mill, running his fingers along the grains of winter wheat scattered on the stone floor. While it was true that ninety-five percent of the United Kingdom grew winter wheat, there was only one specific place in Northern Ireland that had the right soil for the mineral and chemical make up of this wheat. Sherlock knew that this was the right place. It had only been a day since the failed rescue in Dublin, but Moriarty had already moved on from this place. A shaking black-gloved hand squeezed a small handful of grain tightly as its owner tried to calm himself.

The consulting detective took a deep breath and let it out slowly, releasing the grain as he did so. John had been here. He could smell it. In fact, it had only been a matter of hours since they had left, if the tire tracks and paw prints in the dirt were anything to go by. Sherlock had studied the paw prints earlier. One set had belonged to a Siberian tiger, a shapeshifter most likely. The other had belonged to a wolf. Sherlock hadn't been sure at first about the wolf, but he was nearly positive now that it too was a shifter. The shoe prints left in the dirt had belonged to a man of medium stature, with impeccable taste in clothing. The detective could tell as much because the brand of the shoe (Testoni), was imprinted in the dirt as well. Sherlock strongly suspected that the prints belonged to the notorious James Moriarty. However there was no sign of John's tracks.

John had definitely been here. Sherlock had been able to smell him when he'd entered the old farmhouse. It had been quite difficult to control himself when he'd discovered the place where John had been tied to a bed. Medical equipment had also been discovered which had John's DNA and blood all over the tubing and needles. This was a bigger cause for worry. Sherlock had no idea what Moriarty had done to John, but he'd sent the lot of it back to London where Mycroft's people would inspect it. Sherlock wanted to be the one to do so, but there was precious little time, and the consulting detective suspected that it wouldn't help in where they had taken John now.

Standing, the dark haired man made his way back out to the tire tracks that had been marked off by now. Mycroft's team of men where taking pictures and casts of the prints. Sherlock closed his eyes and allowed himself to relax, letting the sounds around him drift by. Carefully he visualized all of the clues they'd found so far, and tried to process what Moriarty's next move would be.

It was obvious that the consulting criminal had brought John here for some kind of medical procedure, meaning that John was most definitely still alive. Given that John was able to be moved now, Sherlock would think that Moriarty would move him out of the country next. Which didn't bode well for a happy ending. Now the question was, where would Moriarty go? Ireland, while being the man's native land, was too close. He must know that Sherlock would find him there. So it was out. The same with the United Kingdom, it was too close. Moriarty had contacts in most of Europe and Asia. However there had to be some kind of logic to where he would go next.

Sherlock growled as he tried to think. He didn't have enough information to determine Moriarty's next move. He could only make educated guesses, and that wasn't good enough! "I need more information," he said out loud.

A passing member of Mycroft's team paused for a second at the outburst. "We're working on it sir. We have satellite images coming in on the computer in the van that will show what happened here."

Sherlock stared at the man for a few seconds before marching over to the van, ignoring the shouts of protest as he walked across the tire tracks. As he approached, a ginger haired man with spectacles stumbled out of the back of the black van. "'Ello!" He waved at Sherlock, seemingly oblivious to the man's dark mood. "What can I do for ya?"

"The satellite images. I need to see them immediately."

"O 'course! They're jus' comin' in now," he said as he climbed back into the van and tapped at the keyboard of a laptop. "'Ere we are," he spun the computer around on his knees so Sherlock could see the progression of pictures.

A dark van pulled up to the house at approximately fourteen hundred hours. Ten minutes later, a man led a wolf and a tiger out of the house and into the van. The wolf looked to be cowering. There was no John though. Sherlock squinted at the screen studying the images carefully to see if there was something he'd missed. "Is there imagery of when they arrived here?" he asked, not looking away from the computer.

"Too much cloud cover," the ginger man shook his head. "Bit of a storm went through when they gots 'ere."

Sherlock frowned. However one of the pictures caught his eye. He could see the wolf clearly and it seemed to be favoring it's left front leg. The consulting detective's eyebrows rose into his hairline as connections started forming. "No," he whispered. "It's not possible."

"What ain't possible?" the ginger asked.

"The medical supplies! Has it already been sent off?"

"Not yet," the ginger moved the laptop back to the small table in the back of the van and proceeded to point to a box of bagged equipment near the front. "All of it's up there. Was just gonna send it on it's way actually."

Sherlock jumped in the van and began pulling out equipment until he found the syringes. "Do you have lap equipment?" he asked frantically. If what he was thinking had taken place… but no, it wasn't possible to turn someone into a shapeshifter, was it?

"Got a bit of stuff in 'ere," the man pulled open a drawer to reveal some rudimentary lap equipment.

It would do. Sherlock pulled out what he needed and set to work. It would only take a few minutes to see if the blood in the syringe held shapeshifter genes. "What are ya lookin' for?" the man asked looking curiously at what Sherlock was doing.

"Checking the DNA. If I'm correct, it could change everything."

The man didn't say anything for a while and simply watched as Sherlock preformed his tests. The only sounds were the muffled words of Mycroft's men outside and the steady breathing of the two men in the back of the van. Once the test was done, Sherlock looked through the microscope at the sample and stopped breathing for a moment. The syringe held shapeshifter blood. The gene was right there. There was only one way to make sure though, if John had been changed.

He spun around and dug through the box again until he found the manacles that had held John to the bed. There were bits of DNA on them that Sherlock would be able to test. Once again, the test only took a few minutes and once the results were visible, Sherlock stopped breathing. His mate was now a shapeshifter too. Sherlock sat back in shock. What would this do to their bond? It still felt strong. Sherlock still felt connected to John.

"You know of shapeshifters?"

"'O 'course I do!" the man smiled wider. "Seein' as I'm one meself!"

Sherlock eyed him speculatively, until the man sighed and moved to close and lock the doors to the van. He proceeded to unselfconsciously remove his clothing. Once he was finished, he stood still and let himself relax. Red fur began to grow out from his entire body and he shrank down. Within seconds, a curious red panda stood on its hind legs staring up at an amazed Sherlock. The man changed back and redressed himself.

"Sorry, just realized I didn' introduce meself. Bit improper showing off like that without introductions." He held out his hand and smiled. "Name's Jerry, Jerry Reid."

Sherlock hesitantly shook the man's hand. "Sherlock Holmes."

"O 'course I know who you are! Mr. 'olmes' brother! Make a lovely pair of panthers, you do!"

"My brother knows of your ability?"

Jerry nodded. "'E's an equal opportunity employer," he grinned.

"Indeed," Sherlock's mouth quirked up in a small smile. "May I ask you a theoretical question, Jerry?"

The ginger haired man nodded.

"Theoretically, if a criminal mastermind was turning ordinary people into shapeshifters, where would he take them? For that matter, why would he be doing it at all?"

"Theoretically?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Hmm," Jerry tapped his chin, his thick black glasses sliding down his nose as he thought. "Well, if I were a criminal mastermind, I s'pose I'd be needin' some protection against the authorities and all that. Or maybe I'd be wantin' te sell 'em? Either way, they'd probably be needin' some trainin'. So I s'pose I'd take 'em somewhere isolated. Where there ain't a lot of people to muck things up."

"I'd concur," Sherlock nodded. "However that doesn't narrow down the search area. There are many vast places that are isolated on Earth."

"Yeah, I s'pose," Jerry nodded. "But, theoretically, I guess I'd check out the rest of the pictures that just came in from the satellite to see where the van went," he smirked.

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow and frowned a little, but eagerly moved with Jerry to the back of the van where the computer was chiming that a new message had arrived. With a few quick clicks, the red head had the pictures pulled up and laid out. It looked like the van had taken off west to a small private airport not more than a half an hour away. Sherlock got up to rush out of the van, but Jerry stopped him. "'Ang on," he clicked open a few more photos of the airport itself to see that a private plane had been pulled out of a hanger, and a tiger, wolf, and half a dozen men were loaded on.

"Right there," he pointed at the screen and Sherlock squinted to see the registration markings on the plane.

"Call it in and see where it went! I'll be headed towards the airport!" Sherlock said as he pushed open the back doors on the van and ran towards the land rover sitting nearby. A few of Mycroft's men shouted at him as he jumped in. Four of them managed to get in as well (well aware of what their boss would do if Sherlock was allowed to leave by himself) before the consulting detective took off down the road.

\------------------------------------------

John whimpered wearily as he was lifted from the plane by one of Moriarty's thugs and carried down the exit ramp. He'd been shocked again just before landing, because apparently Moriarty liked to see him twitch. However this resulted in John losing consciousness for a short period of time. Hence the thug…

Trying to take stock of his surroundings, John noticed that it was cold wherever they were. Very cold actually. And he could smell the ocean not too far away. Perhaps they were along the west coast of Russia, near St. Petersburg along the Baltic Sea? Or maybe they were in one of the Scandinavian countries? The plane ride hadn't been long enough for them to be in North America, but at the same time, it had been long enough that he didn't think they were in the United Kingdom or Ireland anymore. Maybe Finland?

John struggled against the uncomfortable hold the large bear of a man had on him, but there was no use. He was far too weak from dehydration and malnutrition. He honestly couldn't remember when he'd last eaten or drank. However thanks to his medical background, he knew that it had been long enough that hallucinations wouldn't be far off.

He was dropped in the back of another van; Seb climbed in with him before they closed and locked the doors. The van ride wasn't very long, definitely not long enough for John to gain some semblance of strength, which resulted in him being slung over the shoulder of a thug once again when they reached their destination a half an hour later. "Put him in there," Moriarty instructed.

John opened his eyes to see row upon row of kennels. These were not regular kennels like one might see at the pound, but rather heavy duty kennels with steel bars for supports. There were several kennels already occupied, by various creatures including a grizzly bear, a lion, a red fox, a black and silver wolf, a snow leopard, a wolverine, and a buckskin stallion.

The thug carrying John tossed him into a kennel next to the black and silver wolf then locked the gate securely. Moriarty crouched down on the other side of the door. The manic smile was back, and this time it made John shudder. "We're going to have lots of fun tomorrow," he said before straightening and leading the rest of the group away.

John groaned and curled up in a ball. His entire body ached and he would kill for a glass of water. A low whining met his sensitive ears, and John slowly turned his head to see the black and silver wolf looking at him with concern. Her ears were perked forward and her head was lower than her shoulders. Golden eyes locked with his. _Are you okay?_ she seemed to be asking.

John shook his head, whimpering as he did so because it made his headache worse. The she-wolf whimpered in sympathy and lay on her belly, her head resting on her paws. There wasn't anything she could do to help him, so John closed his eyes and tried to sleep. Hopefully, he could drink something tomorrow… or later today? He wasn't quite sure on the time, but it mattered little. Moriarty would do what he was going to do whether John liked it or not. The former army doctor just had to remember not to give up. Sherlock was coming, and if he could get away before then, even better. But for now, sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! So it's a bit later than I thought it was going to be with the update. However the wedding went well! I had fun being Maid of Honor. AND! My speech was better than the Best Man's! HA! WIN!
> 
> Okay, some updates. The whole wedding thing is over until late July when I have a bridal shower to go to. However I'm also doing another round of Camp Nanowrimo in July. My word goal is only 30,000 this time though, so I might be able to continue with this story. I want the next chapter to be up as soon as you guys do, trust me.
> 
> So that's about it. Please comment. I love it when I get those e-mails that say there's a new comment!


	15. Opportunites

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: NSFW, Frottage, Hand Job

"Flug 24-175, þú ert í lendingu," a voice crackled over the radio.

"Þakka þér," Sherlock replied as the plane dipped down below the clouds and aligned with the tarmac several hundred feet in front of it.

The small private jet sunk lower and lower until the wheels gently reunited with the ground. Soon, the plane came to a halt inside a hanger and the brunet consulting detective stepped out to breath in the fresh salty air. Keflavík International Airport near Keflavík, Iceland was on a thin peninsula stretching out into the North Atlantic on the west side of the island. The smell of salt and fish was prevalent, but Sherlock wasn't interested in these scents in the least. He inhaled deeply, as though expecting to pick up John's scent, but he knew it was impossible. There was too much interference. That and John's scent would have changed now that he was a shapeshifter.

Sherlock frowned at this revelation. He would miss John's warm tea, gunpowder, and wool smell. However he was willing to learn John's new scent, and John would have to re-learn Sherlock's scent with his enhanced olfactory senses. There was much that would need to be done when he found his mate. However there was still more traveling to be done.

According to the surveillance photos that Jerry had forwarded to Sherlock's mobile, the van had headed east on Suðurlandsvegur, but cloud cover had obscured the final destination. This, Sherlock could work with. Odds were that they would stay in the southern part of the country. The north was less hospitable. Of course, Moriarty would want somewhere secluded though. Quickly slipping his mobile out of his pocket, the younger Holmes sent off a text to his brother asking for Moriarty's known associates in southern Iceland.

It was only a few minutes later that Mycroft replied with a short list of people. One of whom was a man named Jóhann Mustanen in a village about an hour a head called Árborg. With a smile, he directed Mycroft's man driving the vehicle to make a pit stop in the small town.

\---------------------------------

Cold water splashed over John and he started violently, whimpering as he pushed back with all four paws. "Come on then," a gruff voice said. "Boss says you can have something to drink then we need to get your training underway, savvy?"

John grumbled a bit, but didn't hesitate as the man set down a bowl of water just inside the door. He attacked the water with vigor, lapping up the cold liquid until his stomach hurt. "That's enough," the man said as he kicked at the bowl. "Come on, we need to get moving."

He opened the door wider and allowed John to walk down the hall on his own. There were perhaps a dozen kennels between him and the door at the end of the hall, and there was no one else here. John turned to see the man behind him looking at him sternly. "Get movin'!" he said wielding what looked like a cattle prod.

John growled and turned to face the man. If a prod was all he had, then John could take him. "Don' even think about it!" the man growled back. "You'll regret it if ya do!"

John didn't listen to the man though and continued to advance on him, head lowered and teeth bared. The man made a jab at him with the crackling electric prod, but missed as John's agility was superior to his own. The former army doctor hunkered down on his haunches and sprang forward, hitting the man's shoulders and causing them both to tumble to the ground. He was just about to attempt to bite the man when a bolt of electricity struck him from the collar, sending him limp and completely at the mercy of the man.

He was shoved off and landed in a twitching heap on the floor. Small whimpers left his muzzle until the electricity stopped a moment later. It was all John could do to pant heavily against the concrete floor. "Tut, tut," a familiar voice said followed by the sharp click of shoes.

Moriarty walked around to John's head and crouched down. "I thought you'd behave, Doctor Watson. I can see that I underestimated you though. I should have known you would be an opportunist." He shook his head slowly, a smile creeping along his face. "You should have waited. This was not your opportunity, and you won't have another, because now I'll have to arm all of my guards who handle you with one of these," he held up the hated black remote. John flinched at the sight of it and let out a low whine. "It's a shame really, that you're so afraid of the pain. It'll make breaking you easy."

The dark haired man rose and began to walk back toward the door at the end of the hall. "Pick him up and follow," he commanded the man that John had attacked.

Without preamble, John was flung over a shoulder and carried into the next room. It was large and concrete, almost like a gym, only without the training weights or the basketball hoops. Light shone in from the long horizontal windows near the ceiling. John glanced over to Moriarty who was standing casually with his hands behind his back. A smile graced his face and John shrunk back. Smiles were never good on this man.

"Had a good look around?" he asked. John didn't answer. "Good, because it's time to get down to business."

John let out a growl. He would not break easy. He had to keep telling himself that Sherlock was coming. Soon… very soon.

\---------------------------------

"I've got an idea," Gregory Lestrade said into his mobile as he walked down the dark street lit intermittently by streetlights.

"What's that?" his mate, Mycroft Holmes asked. His voice was tired, but Greg knew the elder Holmes wouldn't sleep until either A) he collapsed from exhaustion or B) John was found and returned to Sherlock.

"Well, since I know you won't come home or get any sort of rest until this is sorted, I thought I'd pick up Thai and meet you at your office."

There was silence on the other end of the line for a moment and Greg began to think that Mycroft had fallen asleep. "That sounds wonderful, Gregory," he said softly. "Sherlock is on the move right now and there is little I can do besides worry."

Greg smiled and looked up ahead to the simple white building that was the Diogenes Club. "Then I suggest you come down and meet me at the door. I don't think the staff like me very much."

Mycroft snorted. "That's only because of the noise you made last time you were in my office."

"That was hardly my fault!" Greg protested.

"I'll see you momentarily, Gregory," Mycroft said before hanging up.

Greg smiled and tucked the mobile back in his coat pocket. True to his word, Mycroft met him at the door and led him up to his office. The large room with its stacks of mahogany bookshelves and liquor cabinet in the corner had become quite familiar to Greg over the past year. He'd learned early on that if he only waited to see his husband at home, he'd likely not see him very often.

The silver haired man set the bag with Thai food in it on the desk and took off his coat, throwing it over the back of one of the chairs. Mycroft winced a little at the coat being so carelessly thrown about, but declined to say anything about. "Water?" he asked his husband.

Greg smiled and nodded. He and Mycroft had been working together to live a little bit healthier. Take-out Thai didn't really help, but this was not really a good time to go home and make an elaborate meal. Besides, Mycroft was the cook out of the two of them and they both knew that he wasn't going home until John was back in 221B.

The meal was simple and the two shared it quietly until the take out boxes were empty. Greg glanced up at Mycroft and frowned at the look of concentration as the elder Holmes looked over a document. "Mycroft," he said gently, taking the document folder away. "The point of this was to relax a bit."

"There's far too much to be done," the elder Holmes replied frowning as the folder was taken away.

Greg simply smirked and stood. He took the few necessary steps to reach Mycroft before carefully straddling the man's lap and settling down on his thighs. The DI placed his hands on Mycroft's shoulders and leaned in to nip at his lower lip. The auburn haired man let out a small moan and leaned forward when Greg leaned back. A smile played at his lips as Greg's hands slid down to unbutton the top two buttons on Mycroft's shirt. They continued to sweep over the man's chest, rubbing soothingly as they went. "Now, are you going to relax for ten minutes?" Greg asked.

Mycroft seemed to study his husband for a moment before reaching out and wordlessly pulling the silver haired man forward into a deep kiss. Their lips parted and his tongue darted out to enter the DI's, flicking in and around, teasing and frustrating. His teeth nipped and nibbled along Greg's lower lip, as his hands clutched at the man's arse. Greg moaned into Mycroft's mouth and ground his hips forward causing Mycroft to gasp and clutch his hands tighter.

Greg thrust forward again and Mycroft met him. Both men groaned at the friction and moved faster. Greg's hands brushed over Mycroft's nipples, earning another gasp. Mycroft in retaliation thrust up again, holding onto Greg's arse to keep him in place. "Myc!" Greg whimpered.

Mycroft growled and attacked the DI's neck, biting and nipping along his collar. "You've successfully diverted my attention, Gregory. What do you expect?" he said between nips.

Greg's eyes rolled back as he thrust his hips forward. Mycroft deftly reached into his jacket pocket then and pulled out a monogrammed handkerchief. He pushed Greg back a little to reach for his zip and undid it, pulling his cock through the slit in his boxers as he did so. His own cock was freed shortly after. Greg whimpered at the loss of contact, however brief. He groaned again though as Mycroft draped the handkerchief over both of their cocks and gripped them tightly, rubbing them together and thrusting upwards.

What rhythm they had was erratic and broken as their breath sped up. Greg's fingers were leaving indents in Mycroft's shoulders and his chest was heaving. Small whimpers left his throat every time Mycroft thrust up. Mycroft himself wasn't much better. His heart was pounding and the only reason he too wasn't making any noise was because he was biting his lower lip.

Greg was the first to let go, and his orgasm ripped through him. Mycroft thrust up still though seeking his own orgasm as Greg continued to ride his out. A moment later the elder Holmes sucked in a deep breath as the handkerchief was thoroughly soaked with both of their releases.

Greg slumped forward and Mycroft relaxed back into his chair. Their breathing slowly came back under control and they enjoyed the moment while they could. However reality poked sharply at them as a knock was heard at the door. Greg snuffled into Mycroft's neck as the elder Holmes let his head bounce back against the back of the seat. "Yes?" he called out.

"Sir, your brother is on the line," Anthea's voice called through the door.

Greg was grateful for the woman's tact as she didn't intrude on their privacy. "Thank you, Anthea," Mycroft called out. They heard her walk away and Mycroft reached over to stab at the speaker button on the phone. "Sherlock," he said as Greg sat up and tucked both of them back into their trousers after cleaning up a bit with the dry parts of the handkerchief.

"Mycroft," Sherlock's voice was tired and worn, but held a hint of triumph. "I know where he is."

Mycroft's eyebrow's arched up in surprise. He hadn't been expecting to hear from Sherlock until the morning. "Your interrogation went well," he said.

"Yes. It didn't really take much before he was eager to tell me whatever I wanted to know."

Greg's eyebrows furrowed in worry. Mycroft shook his head subtly though and continued on, "I'm pleased to hear it. What do you need from me?"

"Heat vision goggles and tranquilizer guns."

Mycroft was quiet for a moment while he thought. "Of course," he said finally. "You'll have what you need by the morning. And Sherlock?" Mycroft paused for a moment. "Be careful."

"Don't be stupid, Mycroft," the younger Holmes said, and hung up.

Greg and Mycroft turned back to each other. "I'm afraid to ask what he did to get answers so quickly," Greg asked turning sideways to sit across Mycroft's lap.

Mycroft wrapped an arm around Greg as he dialed a number on his mobile. "I wouldn't worry too much. The man's most likely still alive."

"That doesn't actually help, Myc," Greg grumbled.

Mycroft smiled, but didn't reply as he held his mobile up to his ear. Greg listened as the elder Holmes gave orders for supplies to be routed to Sherlock and his team. "It won't be long now," he said quietly as he hung up.

Greg nodded and hugged his husband close, hoping that John would be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies once again for how long it took to get this out. Had a lot going on in the month of July. I participated in another writing challenge, and won. Only 30,000 words this time, but it was still a challenge with all that I had going on. I also moved. I am now in my own apartment in the same city as where I'll be going back to school, which is coming up REALLY soon here. School starts August 26th. I'm hoping to have this story finished by then.
> 
> Also, I'd like to apologize for the confusion in the last chapter. Apparently I mixed up scenes and there was some confusion as to Sherlock indentifying John on the video feed. It's now been fixed.
> 
> Translation: The dialogue at the beginning of the chapter is in Icelandic and roughly translates to "Flight 24-175, you are good to land." "Thank you."
> 
> If any of you out there reading this actually speak Icelandic and would like to correct it, please let me know.


	16. Kill or Be Killed

"Kill it!" Moriarty screamed as he jabbed at the button controlling the electric pulses going through John's body.

The blond wolf whined and moaned, unable to think about anything besides the pain. Moriarty had been trying to get him to kill the rabbit that was tied to a hook in the floor in front of him. However John knew how this worked. He'd been a prisoner of war for a short period of time. First they gave you what you wanted, water, food… Then they asked you to do something simple. If you did it, you got another luxury, a toothbrush maybe? However what they asked just kept getting bigger and bigger until you were their soldier and no longer in control of your own mind.

John knew if he killed the rabbit, it would be something bigger next, until Moriarty had him killing humans. The Irish man only wanted control over him. However the thought of reprieve almost had him giving in. Almost…

The pain stopped for a moment and John fell limp. Every single muscle in his body was aching and he would sleep if he could. The soft click of shoes walked closer to him and Moriarty's shadow crossed over his fur. The man crouched down and stared at John. The wolf, too exhausted to move, stared back for a moment before closing his eyes. "Oh, Johnny," Moriarty said in a low voice. "You are stubborn. I thought you would be easy to break, but it appears I underestimated you." He was quiet for a moment and all John could hear was his own ragged breathing. "Perhaps it's time to try a different method? Because you aren't as frightened of the pain as I thought you'd be."

Moriarty rested his hand on John's side and a shiver stole through him. He didn't want this man touching him in any way, but he couldn't make his muscles move. The Irish man retracted his hand and stood up. "Yes, I think another form of persuasion is just what you need. Pick him up and take him back to his kennel. We'll start again tomorrow." The last part was directed to the two guards who were always on duty when Moriarty was working with John.

John actually let out a whimper as he was picked up from the floor by one of the burly bodyguards. The other led the way out of the training room and back into the long hallway that housed the kennels. Silence prevailed in the hallway, as those who inhabited it had learned very quickly what happens to noisemakers and rebels. Another yelp of pain escaped the blond wolf as he was unceremoniously tossed into the kennel that had been his home for the past few days.

He wasn't actually sure how long he'd been there, just that it had been too long. ANY time spent in this place was too long. The guards closed and locked the door before swaggering down the hall, speaking in a language that John couldn't understand. He'd tried to figure it out, but could only hazard a guess. Norwegian? Danish? Swedish? He couldn't tell, only that it definitely wasn't English.

Groaning, he raised himself up a little bit and crawled over to the water dish. He'd drank sparingly for the first day or so until he'd realized that they meant to keep refilling it. Even so, he drank only enough to quench his thirst. Who knew if they would take away the water as a punishment? He'd even been given food. A rare steak that had been tossed into the kennel with a wet slap as it hit the concrete. Despite the fact that John liked his meat medium well-done, he scarfed down the meager meal before thinking about it. The wolf in him was satiated and he found that he didn't mind the pink meat so much as he normally would have in his human form.

If there was anything to be said that was good about his situation, John had to say that he had become more and more comfortable with the idea of being a wolf. He could understand now why Sherlock sometimes would change into a panther when he was bored. The animal didn't think about things like boredom. It only thought about the here and now. Everything else was irrelevant. He'd also become more proficient at speaking with the wolf next door to him. They'd worked out a series of movements to ask things and speak. The natural language of the wolf seemed to rise too, the longer he stayed in this form.

As it was, the black and silver wolf next door was named Mary. She was taken from her home about two months ago, and had undergone the same procedure as John. He wondered what they said about them both that they'd turned into wolves? He was grateful for her company though. It seemed she hadn't been turned into a shapeshifter to be trained as a guard dog. Instead, she was taken to a medical lab everyday where they ran tests on her; made her run on a treadmill, chase an electric rabbit around a track, test her memory, try to see how much she understood as a human.

 _John?_ , Mary asked in the language of wolves. _Are you okay?_

John lay beside the water dish, wishing the residual pain would go away. Even if the source of the pain had stopped, he still ached and felt twinges of phantom pain after so much exposure to it. He nodded a bit. _I've had worse._ He tried to smile, but it looked more like a grimace.

Mary lay down on her belly, her head on her paws, so that she was eye level with John. _Your Sherlock is coming, John. Just hang on a little bit longer._ She tried to encourage him.

They'd talked of Sherlock and his relationship with John and how they were almost bonded mates. _I don't know, Mary. If he hasn't found me by now…_ he trailed off.

 _Don't think like that, John!_ she scolded. _If half of what you've said about him is true,_ then he will find you! she growled out the last part.

John looked into her golden eyes and sighed. _I hope you're right._ he said, closing his eyes.

**o O o O o O o O o**

Sherlock felt a strange kind of ache settle in his joints and frowned. He hadn't done anything the previous day to merit this pain, and yet it persisted. He would just have to live with it seeing as he had no pain medicine. In fact he'd consciously stayed away from pain meds for a while now. But that was neither here nor now.

Blue grey eyes narrowed as he traced the route on the map and mentally calculated how much longer it would take to get there. The terrain was not kind to their journey and was forcing them to slow down. Growling under his breath, Sherlock wondered if he could get there faster by running as a panther. Likely, he could, but it would mean he'd be by himself, and this was a mission that would undoubtedly need assistance. Moriarty was too smart for his own good, but that didn't mean Sherlock could burst in and swoop John out with no problems. The commando team had already gone over logistics and planned out how they would approach the building. Sherlock would be in the rear, waiting until the team had taken out the guards outside. It would certainly be difficult, being that close to John and not being able to move, but it needed to happen.

Another jolt of pain worked its way down Sherlock's shoulder and he grimaced. "Are you okay, sir?" one of the team members asked.

"Fine, just fine," Sherlock replied rubbing his aching shoulder. His eyes widened then as he realized where the pain was coming from. While he and John were not a fully bonded pair, Mycroft himself had said that they might as well be. They'd spent so much time with each other without completing the bond that it had grown stronger and stronger as the days went on, making them more aware of each other. This was John's pain Sherlock was feeling. Moriarty was torturing him.

Panic clutched at his chest and his breathing sped up. "Can we move faster?" he asked slightly breathless.

"Not without endangering the men, sir," the driver replied.

Sherlock flopped back against the backrest and groaned. "We'll be there soon," the first commando tried to reassure him, but as another jolt of pain rushed through him, Sherlock wasn't sure it would be soon enough.

**o O o O o O o O o**

John back up against the wall in the small cage, growling and baring his teeth. His hackles were raised and his fierce blue eyes were locked on those of a mountain lion. The beast was slowly stalking around the perimeter of the cage. Silently gauging John's reactions. He'd been thrown into the cage by Moriarty's men five minutes ago. The mountain lion had joined him a minute late and Moriarty's voice had come over a speaker stating that the loser would be dead.

The blond wolf kept the mountain lion to his front, circling with it as it moved. He had to assume that the beast was another shapeshifter, and not a random mountain lion Moriarty had captured somewhere. Which meant that the cat would have human abilities of planning and strategizing. John wasn't exactly lacking in those areas. After all, he had been in the RAMC. If anything, he had an advantage there. Unfortunately, the cat had at least a stone on him and probably quicker reflexes.

The large cat let out a low growl then and stopped circling around the edge of the cage. It hunkered down, preparing to spring. John stopped as well. He didn't want to fight, but if he had to, then he was going to survive. As the mountain lion sprang at him, John dodged to the side and used the cat's recovery time to leap at it. Snarling, he latched onto the tawny nape of neck and locked his jaw in place as the cat yowled and bucked. One giant paw finally swooped back and left four bloody tracks in John's front left shoulder.

He yipped and let go, but didn't let his guard down as the cat darted away to the other side of the cage. John eyed his opponent carefully, noticing that his sharp teeth had left bloody rivulets in the cat's fur. He frowned and steadied himself, the adrenaline pumping through him helped in covering up the pain from his shoulder.

The cat turned sharply once it reached the other side of the cage and barreled toward John again. The massive bulk hit his hindquarters as he scrambled to get out of the way. Teeth and claws dug into his back right leg and John let out a strangled howl of pain and tried to wrench his leg away from the mountain lion. The cat held on though, so John whipped around and used his own claws to scratch at the pink nose buried in his blood and fur. The mountain lion let out a screech and shied away from John's second swipe.

Both parties retreated to opposite ends of the cage to recover for a few seconds, breathing heavily. John was limping a bit, and was afraid of what the adrenaline was covering up. There was some serious damage to his leg and he knew that if he were ever able to shift back into a human, he'd have to have surgery. He glared over at the mountain lion that was licking the blood from its lips. Lowering his head, John searched for some kind of weakness. Aside from the injuries sustained from himself, the cat was perfect. He moved with sinuous grace, ignoring his pain and eyes on his target. Whereas John was injured to the point of limping already.

The blond wolf let out a huff of air and set his target. He needed to get on top of the cat and bite into the spinal cord. It was the best idea for a quick painless kill. However the problem lay in getting there. With his bad leg, he would be slower. John didn't have much time to strategize further because the cat gave a loud yowl and pounced again. This time, John managed to duck to the side, barely avoiding the razor sharp claws. The cat growled in inpatients and dug his claws into the dirt floor of the cage as he whipped around and barreled after John.

The wolf ran as best he could and cut a sharp right and leapt. He flew through the air towards the cat, hoping against hope that he would somehow land on its back. The cat's eyes grew large and everything seemed to move in slow motion as John's front paws hit the cat. He opened his mouth and moved his head forward to bite at the spinal cord, but suddenly it wasn't there anymore. His jaws closed on thin air and a giant paw, claws outstretched, caught him in the side and batted him into the side of the cage. John hit the bars with such force, all the air was driven from his lungs and his vision blacked out for a second.

However he didn't have the luxury of laying there, and despite the dizziness thrust his paws forward to turn over. He was almost up when the cat hit him in the side again with its entire body. Two massive paws had him pinned and a mouthful of teeth was descending toward his neck when a single shot rang out. The cat was propelled off of a stunned John who simply lay on his back, all four paws still stretched out as though to ward off the cat who was now lying motionless with a pool of blood spreading in a halo around its head.

Several other shots rang out then and forced John to his feet. He hunkered low the ground, the lighter fur on his belly dragging through the dirt as more shots were fired. His winter blue eyes searched the darkness through the bars of the cage, but found nothing to focus on. His nose and ears told him differently though. He could hear screams and shouts and smell blood and gun powder. Suddenly, just as soon as it had started, it stopped.

Silence prevailed throughout the room and John felt his nerves tighten even farther. The soft thumping of feet running reached his ears and he whipped around in time to see someone in a long dark coat reach the door of the cage. _Sherlock!_ Relief such as he had never felt before coursed through him, and he rushed to the door as it opened, like a dog ecstatic to see its master home from work. He leapt for the man in the Belfast coat, tackling him to the dirt floor and proceeded to lick his face. Sherlock landed with a pained grunt, his fingers wrapped into the long blond fur on top of him and hugged it close.

"John," he managed to get out in between licks.

It was at that moment, with the fading of the adrenaline, that John could suddenly feel the very real pain in his leg and shoulder. Sherlock's tight hug was putting pressure on the shoulder wound and he yipped sharply as he tugged himself free. He was light headed and had he been of sound mind at the moment, would have recognized the signs of shock. As it was, he staggered sideways and collapsed into a heap. Sherlock rolled to his hands and knees and let out a distressed "John," when he found the leg wound.

The blue scarf came off and was gently, but firmly wrapped around the still bleeding scratches. John whimpered and tried to pull away, but found his strength waning. His vision was narrowing and he kind of felt like throwing up. "Hang on, John. I'm here now. Just hang on," Sherlock's steady voice said. It was the last thing John heard before he blacked out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gah! Cliff-hanger! I know, I know! And I apologize, but honestly, it's either this or wait for another few weeks for a longer chapter. Because the next one will be the last. I apologize once again for how long it's taken to get chapters out, but we're almost done. I will endeavor to get the next one out within two weeks, but please keep in mind that I am back in school and that is my first priority.
> 
> Thank you.


	17. Instincts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: NSFW!!
> 
> Here's the smut you've all been waiting for! Hope you like it!

It was to the soft humming of a baritone voice that John slowly woke up. The gentle sounds were forming a slow melody that he didn't recognize, but determined that it sounded very nice. He smiled and turned his head towards the sound. However the music stopped at his movement. "John?" a soft voice asked.

He frowned. Where did the music go? "Hmm?" he groaned.

"John are you awake?"

"Mmm… no," he said peeking through his eyelids slightly. The sight that met him was fantastic. Sherlock Holmes, his hair in messy black curls, sat on the edge of a hospital standard issue chair. His wide blue eyes were looking intently at John, and his lips were pressed together in what John thought might be worry. The consulting detective's black Belstaff coat was lying on the chair next to him, leaving him in a plain silky midnight blue button-up. "Sherlock?" John asked. He wasn't quite sure what he was seeing was real. The last thing he remembered was fighting the mountain lion in Moriarty's makeshift prison.

A true smile curved Sherlock's lips upward. "It's me, John. You're in the hospital. Do you remember what happened?"

John shook his head, grimacing slightly when he felt a stab of pain. "How…?" he trailed off as a nurse came into the room.

"Ah! Mister Watson!" she said with an accent of some kind. Norwegian? "You are awake. I will go get the doctor." She bustled out of the room quickly.

"Where are we?" John asked, turning back to Sherlock.

"Reykjavik," Sherlock replied.

Icelandic! That's what Moriarty's thugs were speaking! John's eyes widened as he realized this. "How…?" he asked again.

"I'll tell you after the doctor looks you over," Sherlock promised.

"Sherlock," he started to protest, but the doctor; a young man with platinum blond hair, pale skin, and green eyes hiding behind thin wire glasses; walked in.

"Mister Watson," he said with only a trace of an accent. "My name is Doctor Thorirsson. I'm your attending physician. Do you remember how you got here?"

John shook his head slowly, unsure of how much the physician knew of the situation. He glanced over at Sherlock who shook his head minutely. The blond man took that as a cue that the Icelandic doctor didn't know the full extent of what he was.

"That is not uncommon," Dr. Thorirsson smiled glancing down at his clipboard. "It looks like you came to us suffering from numerous broken ribs, some serious damage to your right leg and to your left shoulder." He looked back up, his light hair flopping into his eyes for a second before he brushed it away. "Your memory will most likely come back to you within the next few days. In the mean time though, I'm going to insist that you stay at least another night before leaving for home."

John grimaced, but nodded. "If I must," he said.

The doctor smiled a little. "How are you feeling now, Mr. Watson?"

"Doctor," John corrected. The Icelandic physician nodded in response. "And I feel like I got hit by a bus."

"That's partially due to the medicine," he nodded toward the IV drip. "We'll take you off it now and see how you manage overnight. I'll write out a prescription for some pain killers before you go."

"Thanks," John replied.

Doctor Thorirsson glanced over at Sherlock and smiled a little. "I'll let you catch up now and check back in later."

John nodded and thanked the man as he left. Once he'd gone, John turned to Sherlock and looked him over. The man, despite having spent lord knows how long sitting on a hard plastic chair, was a sight for sore eyes. "Sherlock," he said quietly. The dark haired main moved his chair closer and smiled. "Tell me?" he requested simply.

Sherlock took a deep breath and nodded. John listened attentively as Sherlock explained how the ops team and he had moved from one place to another in search of Moriarty, but had failed every time. That was until they found the informant in Árborg. After that it had been up to the ops team to plan the raid on Moriarty's safe house. "So," John started. "It was you who shot the mountain lion?"

The consulting detective nodded. "I had made sure everyone on the team knew what you looked like, but I found you first."

John seemed to process this for a moment. Finally he looked up at Sherlock and smirked. "Good shot."

Sherlock smiled as well. They sat staring at each other for a moment. John could feel a strange itching sensation under his skin. He wanted… no, he NEEDED to touch Sherlock. It was like something inside him was demanding it. "Sherlock," he said quietly, and his voice came out slightly strangled as he held himself back.

The taller man took one look at John and stood from his chair before carefully folding himself around John on the bed. His head was tucked into John's neck and his left hand was resting on John's chest. One leg rested over top of John's legs, and every bit of tension just seemed to release from both of them as they settled. John placed a hand overtop of Sherlock's on his chest and smiled. "Thank you," he said.

Sherlock mumbled something unintelligible as they both closed their eyes. The touch craving had been satisfied for now and they rejoiced in each other's body heat pressed along their entire lengths. They were silent for a long time until John voiced the thought that had been lingering in the back of his head. "What about Moriarty?"

Sherlock lifted his head to properly look at his mate. His lips were tight and his brow was furrowed. He slowly shook his head. "He escaped. However his empire has been severely damaged. There was a room in the building you were being kept in that had massive amounts of electronic storage. Interpol is already busy sifting through the data. Almost four hundred gigabytes worth. I imagine they're already putting the information to use in bringing down bits and pieces of smuggling rings, human trafficking, and other such criminal activities."

"What about the other shapeshifters?"

Sherlock snuggled back into John's neck breathing in the army medic's changed, but still intoxicating scent. "Mycroft is overseeing the data and who has access to it, so the shapeshifters who were found and any others who are hidden away will be treated fairly and anonymously. The human populace in general still doesn't know we exist and we'd prefer to keep it that way."

"How many shapeshifter's are there?" John stroked a hand down Sherlock's shoulder.

The dark haired man shrugged. "No one is certain. For the most part, we're a secretive society. However if I had to estimate I'd say probably somewhere around one to two million in the world."

John nodded absently. "But now that Moriarty has proven that shapeshifters can be made? Will that change things?"

Sherlock nodded. "Most likely. Mycroft will probably want to keep that information under lock and key, but I don't know how well he'll succeed."

"Why's that?"

"Because Moriarty is still out there with the knowledge and methodology to pass on to others. He's unpredictable."

Silence fell again as John felt himself getting tired again. He didn't want to go to sleep though. He wanted to stay awake with Sherlock. "Go to sleep, John," Sherlock said wearily.

"'M not tired," he replied unconvincingly.

"Yes you are, and I'm not going anywhere. The bond won't permit it for one."

"The bond?"

Sherlock sighed and raised his head to look at John again. "If I explain, will you go to sleep?"

The blond man nodded. Sherlock nuzzled back into his neck as he began. "Our bond was pulled and stretched and broken. However it still exists, and now the frayed ends are trying to reunite. It's compelling us to stay in close contact with each other. The closer the better." He paused for a moment for John to process this. "Now go to sleep."

"M'kay," John mumbled, tipping his head so that his nose was closer to Sherlock's dark locks. And just like that, in between one breath and the next, John fell asleep.

It took another two days before John and Sherlock found themselves back in London. During the course of those two days the two shapeshifters barely left each others' sides. Every time John had to let go of Sherlock's hand, he felt his chest constrict and a low whine built in his throat. He was beginning to understand what Sherlock had meant about needing to mate with him when they had first met. His needs weren't quite sexual yet, but he figured that was in part because he was still healing. However by the time they got back to London, the advanced healing properties that came with being a shapeshifter had worked leaving him with a few new scars and a couple of minor aches in his ribs.

As they left Heathrow, a familiar black sedan pulled up to the curb in front of them before they could hail a taxi. Sherlock rolled his eyes and let out an exasperated sigh. John elbowed him gently. "Be nice. He's just concerned."

"He's being overbearing," Sherlock retorted before opening the door for John.

The older man slid in followed by Sherlock and their light carry on bags. The driver, without any instructions, smoothly pulled away from the curb after they'd shut the door. He merged with traffic and eventually pulled onto the M14 to get them back into central London. It took about forty minutes before they were unlocking the door to 221b and finally stepping back inside their home. John felt that a small eternity had passed since he'd seen the place, and he smiled fondly at the mess as Sherlock set down their bags.

John inhaled deeply, taking in the smell of chemicals, tea, and old books. However another scent pervaded his nostrils and he found himself turning back to see his mate. "Sherlock," he said slowly, realizing that his pants were suddenly feeling rather tight.

Sherlock looked him up and down with a predatory gaze and smirked. "Yes John?"

"How did you do it?" John asked as he tried to pace his steps forward.

"Do what John?" Sherlock asked pulling off his coat and hanging it up along with his scarf.

"How did you keep from bending me over the chair and having me six ways from Sunday?" John blushed as he said this, but every single muscle in his body was urging him to claim Sherlock Holmes as his own.

Sherlock, for his part, looked unfazed. "It was an extreme test in patience, I assure you. However there's nothing stopping me now and I do believe you owe me. Or perhaps I'll make you wait, like you did me?"

John barely let the words get out of Sherlock's mouth before he pushed the consulting detective backwards against the wall and claimed his mouth. His hands ran up and down the man's chest as he assaulted the slightly chapped lips and eager tongue. Sherlock wasn't lacking in participation either. He skimmed his hands down John's back until he reached his arse and used both pale hands to squeeze the muscle tightly. John gasped and Sherlock took the opportunity to take control. He used his grip on the smaller man to switch their positions and press John into the wall. "I have been waiting, John Watson, far too long for this."

"God… Sherlock," John groaned as the brunet went to work nipping and sucking at John's neck.

John's fingers dug into Sherlock's back, most likely leaving marks through the fine silk shirt. He gasped as Sherlock bit at the curve where neck met shoulder and simultaneously picked him up. The hands on his rear lifted John easily and he automatically wrapped his legs around the consulting detective's slim waist. "Sherlock!" he shouted. "Put me down!"

"I don't think so, John," Sherlock growled, a lecherous smile on his face. The taller man carried his prize through the living room and kicked open the door to his bedroom before nearly tossing John onto the full-size mattress covered in a soft comforter.

John raised his torso up to rest on his elbows as Sherlock steadily undid the buttons of his silk shirt. His eyes never left John's and John could feel himself getting harder just from that look. He smoothly slid out of his shirt, tossing it carelessly behind him. John's pupils dilated even further as they ravenously devoured the smooth pale chest before him. A thin trail of dark hair trickled down from the middle of his abdomen under the bespoke trousers. Sherlock's long pale fingers slid over the button and fly on the fine trousers, unclasping them and leaving a V of black where John could see his pants.

With a wiggle of his hips, Sherlock slowly pushed his trousers down until they were low enough that they fell on their own and he could step out of them. Underneath was a pair of jockey Y front black cotton briefs that if John hadn't already been hard, would've sent him from nothing to full mast in five seconds flat. A soft whimper escaped his throat without permission, causing a smirk to appear on Sherlock's face. "Like what you see, John?" he asked in a sultry voice, arms akimbo on his hips.

"If you're trying to torture me for how long I made you wait, then I get it. But please stop teasing, Sherlock! I'm about ready to burst!" the blond man pleaded one hand reaching toward his groin. Sherlock was quick though and smacked it away. "Sherlock!" John groaned as the man straddled him.

Sherlock ground down once causing John to surge beneath him panting as his erection sought friction. Two strong hands clasped his hips and held them down though. Another whimper left John's lips as he fell onto his back again, his hands clutching at the comforter. The dark haired man scooted back a little so he was sitting on John's thighs. Teasing fingers brushed over John's erection before they quickly undid the clasp and fly. The heavy warmth of Sherlock left John's thighs and he whined at the loss, but sure hands were urging his hips up so that they could pull his jeans down. The same sure hands returned to remove his plain white cotton pants shortly thereafter. "Off," Sherlock grunted as he tugged at John's cable knit and vest.

John helped him to pull the offending material off, leaving him completely bare to his mate. Sherlock, who still had his briefs on, smirked as he straddled John again and ran his hands up the man's abdomen and over his chest. His fingers stopped to pluck at John's nipples for a moment, causing him to make a small noise of surprise and arch up. "We'll have to explore that later," Sherlock smiled.

"I swear to god, Sherlock. If you don't do something soon I'll pin you down and fuck you raw myself!"

Sherlock's deep chuckle filled the room. "We'll have to explore that later too," he replied.

However it seemed that Sherlock took pity on John because he slid down until his face was level with the erection standing at attention. One hand steadied the stiff member while the other pressed down on John's hips. John was about to tell Sherlock to hurry it up when a warm wet mouth was swallowing him down in one go. A strangled moan left John's throat instead. "Oh my god!"

A dark chuckle caused vibrations to run through John's penis, making him squirm under his mate. Sherlock bobbed up and down a bit, running the tip of his tongue along the vein on the underside of John's cock. He paused for a moment at the head, circling the glans before going back down and swallowing around the entire thing. John let out a loud moan at this and tugged at Sherlock's hair. His hands had found purchase there shortly after Sherlock had started. "Sherlock! I'm gonna… I need to…" he stuttered.

Sherlock sat up though, despite John's protests. "Turn over," he commanded reaching toward his nightstand. In the top drawer was a bottle of lube that he kept for when his body demanded attention. John was rutting against the comforter, moaning, as one lube slicked finger nudged its way into his hole.

"John," Sherlock growled. "You're so tight."

"Oh! Oh god! Please! There!" John moaned as Sherlock's longer fingers hit places in him that he couldn't quite reach when he masturbated. "Ungh! Come on Sherlock, please!"

"Not yet, John. I don't want to hurt you."

"You won't! Well, not much… please!" John pleaded.

"Three fingers. Let me get to three."

John grunted as his head flopped down against the bed. Sherlock smirked and worked two fingers in and out in a steady rhythm, scissoring them to help stretch John out. He brushed over John's prostate every now and then, causing the man to jump and thrust against the bed. However Sherlock would hold him down with his free hand, controlling just how much stimulation John received.

After a few minutes, Sherlock inserted a third finger. He kept the same rhythm, in and out, in and out. John was just about ready to sob at the pressure in his testicles. He just wanted to come. A strangled whine left his throat as Sherlock brushed his prostate again. "Sherlock, I'm going to come," he warned his mate.

However Sherlock removed his fingers from John's hole altogether. John did sob a little at this as he tried to thrust again, only to be held down even harder. "Relax, John," Sherlock whispered in his ear, licking the shell.

"Easy for you to say," John groaned. However he could feel himself calming, slowly backing away from the edge.

"You're so beautiful like this," Sherlock spoke again. "Spread out and begging me to take you. Are you ready John? Do you want me to fuck you?"

"God! Yes, Sherlock! Please!" John begged.

Sherlock couldn't wait any longer and he slicked up his condom-covered cock before pressing the tip against John's entrance. He wanted to shove it in, to make John scream, but he knew that would hurt John. Possibly even rip something. So he held back and pressed in steadily, taking his cues to hold from John's gasping breath. With restraint he didn't know he had, Sherlock worked his way in until his scrotum was resting against John's. He held his position as he waited for John to adjust.

Finally, John's breathing evened out and he pressed back against Sherlock. The taller man let out a long breath that he didn't know he'd been holding and pulled out before pressing back in. He started a slow rhythm, allowing for them both to adjust, but it didn't last long. "Sherlock," John moaned. "Faster, please!"

"So tight! Ungh! John!" Sherlock's mind was focused solely on John. Everything else didn't matter. He thrust in faster; his hands gripping John's hips to pull him back as he thrust in.

Skin slapping skin marked their pace. The tall brunet man moved faster and let out a steady stream of "John, John, John, John…" The blond didn't think he even knew he was doing it. But that didn't matter as Sherlock started to thrust erratically, chasing his orgasm now. John shouted and his vision went white as he met his end. Sherlock fucked him through it and followed shortly after as John's fluttering muscles tipped him over the edge. He bit at the bonding mark on the back of John's neck as he let go, and John yelled again, sure that he was orgasming again despite having recently done so.

Sherlock's muscles gave out and he flopped down on top of John. John grunted, but didn't protest the warm weight. They were silent for several long minutes before Sherlock groaned and slipped off of John to lie beside him, nuzzled into his mate's neck, licking at the bleeding bonding mark. "That was intense," John rasped. "Will it always be like that?"

"I should hope not," Sherlock replied, licking once more at the wound. John turned his head to look quizzically at his mate. "I should think that once we learn each other's bodies more thoroughly, our mating would progressively increase in both pleasure and satisfaction."

John chuckled. "Something like that," he replied, raising an arm to curl around Sherlock.

A short shrill chirping interrupted their post-orgasmic haze though and Sherlock reached for his trousers on the floor. His mobile was in his hands when he rolled back towards John. "What is it?" the blond man asked.

"Lestrade. Says he knows we just got back, but he needs another opinion at a crime scene," he looked enquiringly over at John.

The former army doctor shook his head smiling and ran a hand over Sherlock's stomach. "Only if we can shower together first."

Sherlock smirked and quickly tapped in a reply before bouncing up and pulling John to his feet. "I love you, John," he said after pressing a kiss to his mate's lips.

"I love you too, Sherlock," John replied smiling as he was tugged toward the bathroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it! Fin! The story is done. Started writing this story on August 25th, 2012 and didn't finish till October 26th, 2013. That's a long time! I can see why it takes authors so long to publish!
> 
> I had a lot of fun writing this and reading all of your wonderful comments and reviews! This certainly won't be my last Johnlock work. I really enjoy writing them together and will continue to do so. In fact, I have another story in the works right now. However, NaNoWriMo is just around the corner and I'll be participating again. Fifty thousand words in thirty days! Gonna be a blast! (Small note, this story is just over 55,000 words to give you an idea of how long that is) Check it out if you're interested in writing. My name on the forums is Ismira_Daugene.
> 
> See you next story! TTFN!


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